


Stories Left On Our Skin

by Wordweaver



Series: A Wild Combination [5]
Category: One Piece
Genre: 'Fessing Up To Stuff, Addiction, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Backstory, Complete, Dark Stuff & Feelgood, Falling In Love, Fire Juggling, First Time, Homelessness, M/M, Nakamaship, Relationship(s), Undisclosed past, ZoSan - Freeform, feels aplenty, sanzo - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2018-12-18 06:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 134,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordweaver/pseuds/Wordweaver
Summary: Know they're cutting you deep / Feel the scars in your sleepWhat didn't kill us made us strongerStories left on our skin / Wear them with everythingWhat didn't kill us made us stronger- Tove Lo





	1. Cherry Blossoms

* * *

 

_Cherry blossoms, oh cherry blossoms_  
_The spring sky as far as eyes can see_  
_Is covered in a pink haze of clouds_  
_With the beautiful flowers blooming_  
_Come, right now_  
_Let’s go and see_

_\- Traditional Japanese folk song_

* * *

  
 

The cherry trees had just opened their buds and Sanji was in blossom heaven.

He had walked along the street early every weekday morning for almost a month, to open _Bite Me_. Usually with a head full of thoughts about the prep he had to do, what supplies he needed to check and maybe order, speculation on how busy the lunchtime rush was likely to be that day. And for a few weeks he’d walked under trees in their neat circular holes at the edge of the sidewalk, shiny brown trunks sweeping up to bare branches and twigs, still held in their winter pause.

Then last week it was like spring suddenly got the memo and showed up. Day after day of sunshine and the temperature steadily creeping up, and then one morning he was walking along the street in his usual inwardly-focussed state... And looked up to see a foam of delicate white-pink flowers bursting out on every branch.

He’d actually stopped on the sidewalk: stood and gazed up, drinking in the transformation. Finding a sappy smile coming onto his face.

 

 

Whoever had thought to plant some flowering cherry trees along that city street had been a genius of the first order. Amongst the corporate and retail buildings, the busy traffic and street signs and quickly walking people, the blossoming trees brought a little surreal magic to the space. An undeniable shout of nature doing its thing, regardless of whatever shit might be going down in the world. It made Sanji simply, purely glad: and he noticed it having a similar effect on other passers-by.

Like this afternoon. The lunchtime crowd had thinned out and Sanji was just finishing up an order for a couple of students while they chatted to each other. A couple of paces behind them a tall woman had been waiting politely to order her food in turn, turned a little away. Now she stood with her back to the stall, gazing out across the street towards one of the flowering cherry trees.

 

 

Sanji finished parcelling up the students’ food and handed across the counter, taking their money and passing them their change. “Thanks, see you again. _Bon app_ _étit!”_

“Thanks!” The students smiled, before turning and stepping away. As they passed the tall woman, one of them said cheerfully, “Oh... Hi, Professor Nico!”

The woman turned her head, and gave the girl a smile. “Hello, Amy.”

“I’ve nearly finished that assignment on liberty and law. I’ll hand it in before the end of next week.”

“Good. Including a critique of the oppositional approaches of Hayek and Rawls, I hope.”

The girl bit her lip. “Um, that stuff about freedom being an absence of coercion?”

Raising one eyebrow slightly, the woman regarded her student. “I suggest you finish the assigned reading _before_ you try finishing your essay.”

“I will!” The girl grinned sheepishly, before turning and heading off down the street with her friend.

 

 

The tall woman let out a slight sigh, although she was still smiling. Then she stepped in to the stall and turned dark brown eyes on Sanji. “Good afternoon.”

“It really is.” Sanji smiled too, gesturing with one hand towards the cherry tree she had been gazing at. “Spring in the city. What can I get you?”

“I’m still undecided. You have a very interesting menu.” The woman rested one finger against her cheek. “Street foods from around the world... A smart notion.”

“Thanks.” Sanji took to her straight away. The quietly smiling manner; those intelligent brown eyes; the way she was stylishly dressed in a form-fitting leather jacket, over a tailored dark suit and open-necked shirt. Long glossy black hair fell over her shoulders, and a pair of glasses was pushed up onto the crown of her head. “I’m still experimenting with the menu, finding out what people like.”

“You’ve only been open a few weeks, I gather.”

“That’s right. Did you see one of my flyers?” Sanji was always keen to know how people got to hear about _Bite Me_.

 

 

The woman smiled again. “No; some of my students told me about you. They were so enthusiastic I thought I would come to see for myself.”

“That’s great. You’re a professor at the college?”

“Yes.”

“What do you teach?”

“Political science and world history.”

Sanji raised his eyebrows. “Wow. That sounds like serious stuff. And interesting.”

“I wish more people thought so.” The woman let out a soft huff of laughter. “You follow politics?”

“Only what I read on the internet.” Sanji gave her an apologetic smile. “At college I majored in cooking stuff. Catering courses aren’t big on geopolitical analysis.”

 

 

The woman nodded at his stall. “Well, the world needs feeding as much as it needs governing. More so, in my opinion.”

“Can I quote that on my website?”

She chuckled. “Of course. As long as you credit me as the author.”

“For sure. Which gives me the perfect excuse for introductions. I’m Sanji Black, chef _extraordinaire_.” He gave a slightly self-mocking bow. “Welcome to _Bite Me_ , _mademoiselle_.”

“ _Je suis enchanteé de faire votre connaissance_ ,” responded the woman, before placing one hand on her chest and returning the favour with a slight incline of her head. “Professor Robin Nico, full time college professor and part time blogger.”

“Ah, _tu parles français_!”  Sanji beamed at her. “ _Es-tu française?”_

“ _Non, pas du tout_... But I speak several languages.”

“Which makes me say: wow, again.” Sanji was impressed. “And by ‘several’ you mean..?”

“Fluent in four, passable in another half dozen. And I can read a few ancient languages too; although I confess that my classical Sanskrit is considerably better than my ancient Sumerian.”

 

 

Sanji felt his eyes widen slightly. Feeling the combination of unbelievably smart  and extremely attractive  pushing all the right buttons in himself, to the point where he had to refocus. “Uh... Are you by any chance a recipient of a MacArthur Genius Grant as well?”

Robin shook her head. “Regrettably not. I’m just a humble academic. And occasional online thorn in the side of the establishment. Hence the lack of prestigious awards.”

“All those languages, though... Plus you teach history and political science? You must be some kind of serious polymath.”

“I just travelled a lot when I was young.” She said this briskly, as if putting it aside. “But I detected a real French accent when you spoke... Are you a native speaker, or French-Canadian?”

“I grew up in France. Came here to live when I was nine.”

“Do you still have family there?”

“No. Not any more.” This time it was Sanji’s turn to shift the conversation elsewhere. “I like it better here, anyway. More diverse.”

“Hence this culinary venture...” Robin gestured at the stall.

“Yes. Speaking of which: can I fix you some food, while we’re talking? Have you decided what you would like?”

 

 

“Hmm... I think so.” Robin’s gaze travelled along the menu displayed by the counter. “I see you have bánh mì on offer. I last ate that in Danang, when I was visiting Vietnam to study the ruins at Mỹ Sơn.”

“One bánh mì coming right up.” Sanji was glad he’d included this French-influenced Vietnamese filled baguette in his menu choices, it had been a popular seller. He sliced a section of baguette lengthways and began filling it with coriander, grated carrot and cucumber, pickled vegetables, and shredded chicken. “Would you like jalapeño mayonnaise on this?”

“Just a little. And I’ll have a black coffee as well, thank you.”

“No problem.”

 

 

Sanji worked quickly, setting the food and covered cup of coffee on the counter within a minute. “Here y’go. Anything else?”

“No, that’s fine.” Robin paid for her food, before lifting the plastic lid on her coffee cup and taking a small sip. “Mhm... Wonderful how caffeine restores my will to live, with an afternoon of lectures still to go. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Enjoy. And come again.” He gave her a big smile.

“I certainly will. _Jusqu'à la prochaine fois,_ Sanji.” She returned his smile, before lifting her hand in farewell as she turned and walked away down the street lined with cherry trees.

 

 

Sanji leaned against the counter and watched her go.

_That is one fascinating lady._

He wondered if she might become a repeat customer. And hoped that her parting comment in French meant that she would.

His gaze fell on the cherry tree closest to his stall. A slight breeze gusted, stirring the pink-white blossoms: a few stray petals drifting downwards. He watched them spiral and settle on the ground, like tiny butterflies alighting.

_Okay, enough with the spacing out. Tomorrow’s prep to do._

Letting out a small sigh, Sanji turned away from the view and got back to work.

 

 

******

 

 

The stamp of the kendōka’s feet on the wooden floor resounded through the dojo, shortly followed by the clatter of a shinai meeting a men grille. The pair paused; drew back until their shinai tips were just touching; then after a moment, repeated the strike attack.

Zoro watched from a few feet away, his eyes following the movements of the kendōka. Checking their footwork and their stance. Assessing the overall flow of the move. As the striking kendōka once again stepped back from his opponent and the two returned to the _chudan-no-kamae_  stance, Zoro spoke up. “ _Yame_.”

 

Instantly both kendōka stopped, before turning to look at him, shinai lowering.

“You need to concentrate more on your footwork. And keep good distance.” Zoro stepped in between the two kendōka, taking the position of attacker and lifting his shinai. “Watch again.” He took stance and then moved into the strike against the other kendōka, his right foot hitting the floor as his shinai connected smartly with the receiver’s men. “ _Men!”_

Coming back out of it, he spoke again to the pair of beginners. “Get your one-step distance right, or you won’t be in the best place to start your attack. If your _maai’s_ wrong, it throws everything out: your balance, your reach. Think about your footwork, all the time. There’s no point coming at your opponent like a ninja if all he has to do is step in and put you off balance. _Shomen–uchi ,_ single step men attack, is a basic move: but you’ll use it a lot, even in competition. So you need to learn to get it right. That’s why we repeat _waza_ like these: why we work on them all the time. Try it again.”

He moved away and let the kendōka resume. Watching them closely.

 

 

At the end of the evening’s practice Zoro showered and changed, before picking up his kendo bag and heading out into the passageway that led to the dojo exit. As he drew near the dojo’s office, Takahashi appeared in the open doorway. “Zoro... I would like to speak with you, if you don’t have to hurry away.”

“Yes, sensei.” Zoro turned into the office, following the older man.

Takahashi sat down at his desk, gesturing at the chair opposite. “Please, sit.” Zoro did so. His teacher regarded him. “I was observing you giving some coaching to those new students during class this evening. They appear to be making good progress.”

“Yeah, I guess so. They’re doing okay.” Zoro hadn’t realised that Takahashi had been watching him. He hoped he’d done everything by the book.

“You saw where their technique needed correction, and gave them clear instruction. They were able to improve as a result.” Takahashi nodded. “You’re a good teacher.”

 

 

Zoro didn’t exactly know what to say to this. “Uh... Thank you, sensei. I’m only passing on what I learned.”

“This is not a skill that everyone possesses.” His sensei gave a small smile. “It’s a valuable one. What are your plans for taking your kendo to a higher level?”

That was Takahashi all over. No beating about the bush: if he wanted to say something, he just said it. Zoro usually found this directness easy to deal with... Except now, when he hadn’t a clear answer to give. “I’m... not sure, sensei. I plan to keep on competing, whenever I can.”

“When was it you attained fourth dan?”

“Bit more than three years ago. Maybe three and a half years.” Zoro thought he knew where this was going. And with Takahashi’s next question, he was proved right.

“So in a few months’ time, you would be able to take your fifth dan exam. Do you intend to do so?”

There was no other answer than the obvious one. “Yes.”

Takahashi nodded. “Good. Then you will be working towards that. As well as attending tournaments; and continuing to coach beginners and younger students here.” He rested his folded hands on his desk. “In the future there will be an opportunity at this dojo for you to work as an instructor, once you have attained _go-dan_. If you would be interested in such a position.”

 

 

The first thing Zoro registered was that Takahashi said _once you have attained_ _go-dan_ _._ Not ‘if’. Which was typical of his sensei’s direct statement of intent. It felt like both an affirmation of Zoro’s abilities, and a challenge. Which was why it took him a second to register the rest of the words. “You mean coaching? Like we do in class?”

“No. Teaching a whole class, as a kendo instructor.” Takahashi looked at him levelly. “There is greater demand for classes than I will be able to continue to provide. I’ll need to appoint someone to take charge of additional sessions with new students. Would you consider such a post?”

Zoro didn’t need to think twice about it. “Yes, sensei... Absolutely.”

“There would only be one or two extra classes per week, to begin with. I’m afraid I cannot offer you significant hours.” Takahashi spread his hands a little. “But you will find it valuable experience. And in time, you may wish to teach elsewhere also.”

“I’d like to do it.” Zoro was already figuring out which of his evening classes and trainer sessions at the gym he could ditch or shift onto someone else.

“Then we will leave it there, for now.” Takahashi gave him a nod. “First you must work towards _go-dan_. There will be grading examinations at the end of November: I suggest you aim to pass then.”

“I will. Thank you, sensei.”

 

 

They both rose, Zoro giving his teacher a quick bow before picking up his kendo bag and heading out of the office.

He was halfway down the street before he realised he had a big grin on his face.

_Fifth dan by Christmas. Fuckin’ A._

He had worked hard to gain his kendo grades, pushing himself to get through in the minimum time allowed in between each dan. Plenty of people started learning kendo when they were just kids: twelve or even younger, whereas he hadn’t set foot in a dojo until he was sixteen. Zoro had learned quickly, but even so he still went at it hard and kept setting his sights higher. He’d started out with quick reactions, street-fighting instincts and a ton of attitude... All of which had helped.

 _But_ _go-dan_ _... Whole new ball game._

His kendo practice would have to be flawless. His _reiho,_ his _zanshin,_ every single _kata._ Every move showing shit-hot _kigurai:_   high nobility and perfect kendo spirit. Plus demonstrating that as a potential instructor he understood technique and theory and could teach them correctly... With a written exam in that as well.

Zoro knew people who’d gone for fifth dan and failed: it was a tough gig. But Takahashi’s words still echoed inside him.

 _-_ _Once you have attained_ _go-dan_ _._

The way the older man had said it. As if it was a given. Takahashi was economical when it came to praising his students, but what he said, he meant.

 

 

And then the offer of Zoro taking up an instructor’s position at the dojo. Which wouldn’t mean much in the way of money, but that wasn’t the point. It meant acknowledgement of his developing skill. Recognition that he was on track, that as a kendōka he was going up to a whole new level.

A good feeling that had been growing since his conversation with Takahashi welled up inside Zoro like sunlight. A feeling he didn’t often get. When he won a tough match; or beat a higher grade opponent. That small flame of knowing he was good at something, and that he could be even better.

His phone sounded; hitching his kendo bag more securely onto his shoulder, he brought the phone out: Sanji’s number showed on the screen. Smiling, the swordsman hit answer. “Hi, cook.”

“Hi. You on your way home?”

“Yeah. Want to come over?”

“That’d be good. I’ll bring dinner.”

“Okay. See you in a half hour or thereabouts.”

 

 

 

 

Luffy was home when Zoro walked into the main room, watching TV. “Hey. Sanji’s coming over, said he’s bringing dinner.”

“Awesome!” Luffy’s fists shot up and punched the air, the younger man glancing round for a moment. “You been at kendo?”

“Uh huh.”

“How’d it go?”

“Great.” Zoro sat down on the armchair, folding his arms behind his head. “Takahashi told me to go for fifth dan.”

“Is that good?” Luffy’s brows pulled together.

 

 

Zoro nodded. “Yeah, it’s the next grade up. Means I can be a kendo instructor. And get this: Takahashi told me that if get it, I can teach at his dojo. Like, lead my own class.”

“Cool...” Luffy nodded too, his wide grin spreading over his features. “When?”

“November’s the soonest I’d be able to take the exam. So hopefully I could start being an instructor in the new year.”

“Way to go!” his friend enthused. “But you’ll go on kicking people’s asses in tournaments as well, right?”

“Sure. Not planning to give that up any time soon.”

“Sweeeet.” Luffy high-fived him, grinning, before slumping back against the couch. “You want to celebrate this weekend by going out for a drink or ten?”

“Not tomorrow night. Going to that ocean film thing.”

“Oh yeah. Sanji’s birthday present... I remember.” Luffy nodded. “Hey, speaking of which: you around a couple of weekends from now?”

 

 

Zoro rubbed the back of his neck. “Far as I know... What’s that, the thirteenth?”

“Ye-ah.” Luffy nodded. “Gonna have a big party for my birthday. Got to be that weekend, ‘cos Ace is away the one before. He and Marco have got some big fire festival gig out of town, they’ll be away for a few days.”

“Uh huh... You planning on having your party here?”

“It’s gonna be on the roof!” Luffy bounced slightly on the couch, a familiar wide grin lighting up his features. “That’s why I wanted to wait till Ace and Marco got back, they said they’d do me a birthday fire show.”

 

 

Zoro regarded his younger friend. “You think it’s a good idea to have Ace and Marco throwing fire around up on the roof?”

“Totally!” Luffy beamed wider. “I checked it out the other day, there’s an access door off the top stairwell. It’s not even locked.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’ll be cool. We can have music, Usopp can do me a party playlist – and we can barbecue up there, Sanji could cook for us.”

“Just how many people were you thinking of inviting to this thing? You throw an illegal rave on our building rooftop, that’ll get us kicked out of this apartment pretty damn quick.”

“Just a few. You and Sanji, and Ace and Marco. And Usopp. And Nami.” Luffy counted these names off on his fingers as he listed them. “That only makes seven.”

Zoro recognised when his friend was in the familiar grip of an enthusiasm that would resist any attempts to rein it in. “Okay, whatever. Better hope it doesn’t rain.”

“It won’t.” Luffy proclaimed this confidently. “So you’ll ask Sanji and Nami, yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ll ask them. The thirteenth, right?”

 

 

 

Just then a knock on their apartment door signalled the arrival of the chef himself. Luffy bounced off the couch, declaiming “I’ll get it!” before disappearing into the hallway. Zoro heard the door open and close and Luffy’s happy greeting to the chef, before the two of them appeared in the main room. As Luffy resumed his place on the couch Sanji set down a backpack on the floor and peeled off his coat. “One of your neighbours let me in the main door... Does anyone ever get round to fixing the lights in your stairwell? Coming up here is like going spelunking.”

“Welcome to the exciting world of low-rent living,” Zoro replied.

“How was your week?” Luffy hopefully regarded the backpack the chef had put on the floor. “Is that dinner?”

“My week was fine. And yeah: that’s dinner. Soon as I’ve unpacked it and finished putting it together.” Sanji leaned over the armchair, propping one hand on the back, and claimed a kiss from Zoro. “Good kendo practice tonight?”

“Yeah.” Zoro closed one hand on the chef’s collar and tugged it downwards, detaining the other man to prolong the kiss.

 

 

“Zoro’s gonna go for fifth dan.” Luffy announced this with satisfaction.

Sanji sat on the arm of the chair, before looking at the swordsman. “You’re going up to a higher grade?”

Zoro nodded. “That’s the plan. I’ll have to take the exam in November, that’s the soonest I’m eligible. You have to train at least four years between _yon-dan_ and _go-dan_. But Takahashi said I should go for it.”

“Huh... Nice going, moss-head.” Sanji stood up. “I’m gonna go finish fixing dinner. You want to come tell me about it, while I do?”

 

 

Once in the kitchen Zoro propped himself against a counter, watching the chef unpack containers of food and some ingredients from his backpack; then taking out a bowl, jug and spoon from various cupboards. “So what’s for dinner?”

“Moroccan lamb. With harissa couscous.” Sanji nodded at a sealed container of food which he’d put on the table. “It won’t take long to finish putting together. So, this exam you’ll have to take in November to get your higher grade... Will it be difficult?”

“It won’t be a walk in the park. The examiners usually fail more than half the people trying for it.”

The chef nodded, frowning slightly as he measured spoonfuls of couscous into a bowl, then added spices and herbs. “Sounds tough. You think you stand a good chance of passing?”

“Wouldn’t try for it otherwise.” Zoro gave him a slow grin.

 

 

Sanji gave the swordsman a look. “Hah... I forgot I who was talking to there for a moment.” He moved over to the kettle and switched it on. “So if you get your fifth dan... Does that mean you get to compete at a higher level?”

“Yeah. And something else: it’ll mean I can teach. That’s the other thing Takahashi told me today. He’s looking to set up more classes at the dojo, take on more students... And he asked me if I’d be interested in becoming an instructor there.”

“He did? That’s fantastic!” Sanji’s face lit up. “You must be feeling pretty stoked.”

Zoro nodded. “Yeah, pretty much. Getting _go-dan_ means a lot to me.”

 

 

The kettle had come to the boil: Sanji picked it up and poured the steaming water into the bowl of couscous, before giving the contents a stir and then covering it with a plate. “So we’re celebrating. You should’ve told me on the phone, I could’ve picked up some wine on the way over.”

“There’s plenty of beer in the refrigerator,” Zoro responded.

The chef pulled a face. “With Moroccan lamb? Ugh.”

“Tough it out, shit-cook.”

“Philistine.” Sanji took out his phone and set the timer on it. “Okay. Fifteen minutes for the couscous; then I’ll just need to heat through the sauce, and we can eat. Let me put the lamb in the oven to warm through.”

 

 

“Okay.” Zoro watched him bend down and switch the oven on: place the food inside and shut the oven door. “You said your week was fine. That mean you were busy?”

“Mm-hm. Customer numbers go up almost every day. The word has definitely hit the street.” Sanji straightened up. “I’ll have to spend some of tomorrow re-stocking, I’m running low on a few things.”

“That mean you’ll be busy all day?”

“No, just for a couple of hours while I hit the markets and the wholesaler. Then I need to get up to date on my accounts, but that shouldn’t take long.”

“You still want to go for a run together tomorrow morning?”

“Oh yeah.” Sanji smiled at him. “Don’t want to miss that. I can head off after to do my stuff.”

 

 

Zoro smiled too. “Cool. Then we’re going to that ocean film thing in the evening.”

“Been looking forward to it all week.” The chef nodded. “You want to meet at the cinema? Say, just after seven? I think the programme starts at eight; but that place has got a bar, so we could have a drink first.”

“Yeah, sounds good.” The swordsman nodded.

“Hey, I nearly forgot: are you likely to see Usopp any time soon?”

“Probably. He seems to spend half his life on our couch. Why?”

“I need to ask him if he’d be interested in doing some more design work. Nami was raving about his artwork, said she’d like him to do some stuff for her website. I promised her I’d talk to him about it when I see him.”

“Why don’t you give him a call?”

“I did, but his phone just kept going to number unobtainable.”

“Figures... He probably lost it again. Or dropped it under a bus. Usopp goes through a phone about every month.”

Sanji raised an eyebrow. “How’s he afford to keep buying new ones? I thought he wasn’t earning much.”

Zoro shrugged. “He just gets something pre-used and jailbreaks it. That guy can mess with electronics like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Yeah? I’ll bear that in mind the next time my phone goes into meltdown.”

 

 

Zoro nodded. “Yeah, he’s always my go-to guy for that tech stuff. But if Nami wants to talk to Usopp, she’ll have an opportunity to do it face-to-face if she wants, in a couple of weeks’ time. Luffy’s throwing a birthday party, everyone’s invited.”

“He’s having a birthday party? Cool. Where’s it at?”

“On the roof.” Zoro gestured with his thumb towards the ceiling.

“The _roof?”_  Sanji shot him a look. “Trust Luffy to come up with that plan.”

Zoro grunted. “He said Ace and Marco are gonna do a fire show up there.”

“Yeah?” Sanji paused in his cooking, looking thoughtful. “ _That_ I would actually quite like to see.”

“I bet.” The swordsman gave him a slow grin. “Pervert cook.”

“Fuck you.” Sanji seemed to go slightly pink at this: turned away and checked the couscous, lifting the plate off the bowl and giving it a stir before covering it again. “I’m just interested in seeing a fire show, is all. Sounded kind of dramatic.”

“Yeah, it’s a blast. If you like watching two half-naked guys throw flaming torches around to techno music and grappling with each other.”

 

 

The chef raised an eyebrow. “So far I have no problem with that scenario.”

“Figures.” Zoro stepped in behind the chef at the table, standing close. “So which one gives you a boner? Ace or Marco?”

 “Who says either of them do?” Sanji protested. “Fuck, moss head - I didn’t know you were the jealous type.”

“Never said I was.” Zoro shifted a little further forward, sliding one arm around the chef from behind and curling it across the flat planes of his stomach. “Just wondered which of them you’d go for, if that was an option.”

“Horndog.” Sanji smirked. “I know your libido knows no bounds, but this is not a good time. I’m cooking dinner.”

 

 

Zoro used the arm he had curled round the chef to tug the other man even closer, while bending his head forward to get his mouth on his lover’s skin. “Fifteen minutes to kill, right?” He nipped gently at the chef’s neck: heard him pull in a breath.

“Nghh...” Sanji leaned back into the swordsman, just a little. “Ever the romantic.”

Zoro smiled. Then put his mouth against that warm skin again, putting on pressure with his tongue. Felt the Sanji pull in another breath. Before the chef spoke again, in thoroughly distracted tones. “Okay... Fifteen minutes.”

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

The next morning, by the time both men had got up and dressed Luffy had already surfaced and quit the apartment. Sanji wandered into the kitchen, yawning, to find a used bowl and spoon in the sink, a packet of Cheerios standing with its top still open, and an abandoned carton of milk on the table. He closed the cereal box and stuck it away in a cupboard; filled the kettle and switched it on; found the cafetière and spooned fresh coffee into it, before standing gazing out the window and waiting for the water to boil.

Zoro walked into the kitchen; went to the refrigerator and took out a carton of orange juice, before chugging a mouthful straight from it.

“Ugh: get a glass, you slob.” Sanji frowned at him.

 

 

Zoro lowered the carton, raising an eyebrow. “Just avert your eyes, shit cook.” But he moved to a cupboard and got out a couple of glasses, pouring them both full.

“Looks like Luffy’s already up and away.” Sanji nodded his thanks as the swordsman handed him one of the glasses of juice.

“Yeah. Think he said something about hanging out with Ace today... Some kinda street performers’ workshop, northside. Probably won’t see him for the rest of the weekend.”

“He’s always into something.” Sanji watched steam starting to curl up from the spout of the kettle. “If he ever focussed his energy on something for longer than thirty seconds, he could move mountains.”

 

 

The swordsman gave a half-smile. “Don’t think that just ‘cause Luffy looks like he’s all over the map, he doesn’t get stuff done.”

“Stuff other than winning virtual reality pirate fights, or sticking at yet another shitwork job for more than a week?”

“Yeah.” Zoro moved to the refrigerator again: took out a box of eggs. “Stuff like helping people who need it.”

Sanji remembered the conversation they’d had with Luffy a few weeks back, about the volunteering he’d been doing with the food for the homeless network. “Okay... Fair point.”

“He gets into a lot of activism. Him and Ace both.” The swordsman fished a loaf of bread out and put it on the table too.

“I remember you said that.” Sanji remembered too what Usopp had said, about Zoro being part of that alongside his younger friend.

 _-_ _They both care about social justice and stuff, get involved in all kinds of lost causes._

 

 

Aloud he said, “You do that too? Activist stuff, with Luffy?”

Zoro shrugged. “Yeah, when I’ve got the time.”

“What kind of things?”

The swordsman held up two slices of bread. “Depends what’s going down. You want toast?”

“Yeah. I’ll make scrambled eggs in a sec, okay?” Sanji wanted to know more. “Things like anti-capitalist protests?”

“That’s just a bunch of labels the media use.” Zoro sounded dismissive. “Shit happens. The cops coming down heavy on minorities, fucking with them on the street. Big corporations buying up all the housing, jacking up the rents. City authorities withdrawing funding from social projects and community organisations. It’s all part of the same thing, right? Like, screw you if you’re poor or black or sick, or if you don’t happen to buy into the notion that life is a race that only winners should get to enjoy.”

“So what do you think will change all that?”

 

 

Zoro gave a wry smile. “Fuck knows. But one thing I do know is that just rolling over and taking all that shit pretty much guarantees that the assholes who think they’re in charge will keep on doing what they feel like.”

“You ever get involved in anything that steps over the line?”

“Like what?”

“Like stuff that could get you arrested.”

The swordsman let out a short laugh. “In case you hadn’t noticed, that line moves every fucking day. You don’t have to step over it. Sometimes you find yourself on the other side just because you don’t let yourself be shoved backwards.”

 

 

The kettle was boiling. Sanji picked it up and filled the cafetière. Thinking.

After a pause, he spoke again. “I never really got involved in much political stuff when I was at college. But I did do some queer activism. We were lucky: we had a good LGBTQ group at my college, they organised all kinds of things.”

“Such as?”

“All the usual... Pride festival, campaigning for better LGBTQ support on campus, queer speakers. Picketing when one of the college lecturers wrote some homophobic statements in an article.” Sanji brightened slightly. “And we used to organise kiss-ins. Those were fun.”

Zoro laughed again. “Figures that’s what you’d most remember.”

“Okay, smartass. But let me tell you, nothing raises the awareness of some corn-fed jock about queer rights quicker than them having to watch two guys enjoying some serious tongue wrestling right in front of them.”

“Your consciousness-raising efforts ever lead to you getting your ass kicked?”

“Like fuck.” Sanji gave the swordsman a dangerous grin. “Savatist, remember? Anyone ever tried to test the theory with me that queer guys were easy targets, they wound up getting more than they bargained for. I bust one shithead’s nose.”

“And that didn’t get you tossed out of college?”

“The dickbrain in question didn’t make a complaint. He was too mortified about having his ass handed to him by someone of the queer persuasion. Also, he started it.”

 

 

Zoro watched the chef pour two mugs of coffee. “Yeah... It’s like I said a while ago. Sometimes you find yourself fighting because the alternative is having no place to exist. Because some asshole has their own definition of how the universe works and you don’t figure in there anywhere.”

“Then here’s to the alternative view.” Sanji made a mock toast with his coffee mug.

 

 

 

 

 

After breakfast they headed out onto the street, walking fast together for a few minutes to warm up before starting to run.

It was another fine morning: sunshine breaking through scattered clouds, that were chased across the sky by a fresh breeze. Once he’d got into his stride Sanji felt himself loosen up; settling into the rhythm of his feet meeting the sidewalk, cool spring air entering his lungs.

He and Zoro had been running together for a few weeks now. It had become a weekend thing: whether they stayed at his apartment or Zoro’s, they would follow the same routine. Get up and have breakfast, go for a run through the streets or in the park. Not a long run, usually five k or thereabouts. Enough to get the blood humming through his body, feel himself stretching out, waking up, alive. Sometimes Zoro took the lead, sometimes he did: pacing each other as they ran.

After ten or fifteen minutes Zoro turned down a side street: heading for the park. Sanji kept by his side and soon their feet were moving over turf, as they cut across a wide stretch of grass. The ground sloped away from them a little and Zoro picked up the pace. Sanji put on speed too, matching the swordsman as they travelled in a wide loop around the park’s boundary, grass giving way to a tarmac path.

 

 

Ten minutes later they began to slow down; then Zoro dropped to a walk. Sanji followed suit, feeling his breathing slow back to normal.

Their route had brought them to a small surfaced area with various pieces of outdoor gym equipment: a pull-up bar, a balance beam, parallel bars. Zoro headed straight for the pull-up bar. He took a wide overhand grip and then pulled himself up until his chin was over the bar; lowered down slowly, then repeated the move.

Sanji found himself a clear area and did a set of lunges, before moving on to step-ups on the balance beam. Then he worked his way through his savate warm-ups, steps and kicks, before leading into a few capoeira moves.

 

 

He finished by lifting up into a _bananeira_   handstand, holding the balance upright for several seconds, then angling his legs to one side then the other... Before flexing his arms and wrists to pivot back down into standing.

“Nice move.” Zoro was sitting on the balance beam. He’d taken off his hoodie and knotted it around his waist.

Sanji was sweating too. Stripping off his own hoodie he walked over to the beam and plonked himself down beside the swordsman: rummaged in his pocket and brought out his cigarettes and lighter, before sparking up with a sigh of satisfaction. “Umm... Yeah. It was seeing a guy do that, first made me want to learn capoeira.”

 

 

Zoro fanned away the cigarette smoke with one hand, grimacing slightly. “You ever give your lungs an even break?”

“Go sit the fuck upwind. I’ve earned this.” Sanji drew luxuriously on his cigarette.

“What’s the point of going for a run if you’re gonna fill your lungs with that shit at the end of it?”

“Who appointed you Surgeon General?” Sanji took another drag. “I feel like enjoying a nice relaxing smoke. The sun is shining, flowers are coming up and wafting their scent on the breeze, spring is finally here...”

“The only thing I smell is your fucking cigarette smoke.” Zoro stretched both his arms straight up, one hand gripping his wrist and pulling. Sanji heard his shoulders pop. “Ngh. That’s better.”

 

 

Sanji circled his own shoulders, feeling the pleasant after-glow from exercising drying out the sweat on his back. “I like springtime. It’s a hopeful time of year.”

“Hopeful?”

“Yeah, you know. New growth. The weather warming up. The birds and the bees and all that.”

“Okay, Nature Boy. You do much communing with wildlife in the city?”

“You know what I mean, asshole. Even in a city, you notice it. Like the street where I work: someone years ago must have decided to plant a bunch of cherry trees there... And right now they’re all coming out into flower. It looks amazing. I see people stop and just stand there, looking at them. It’s cool.”

 

 

“ _Chiru sakura / Kokoro no oni mo / Tsuno wo oru.”_   Zoro said this quietly, almost absently, looking out across the park.

Sanji blinked. It had sounded like the swordsman was reciting something. “What’s that?”

“Haiku. Kobayashi Issa... Japanese Buddhist poet, way back when. He wrote twenty thousand haiku, thereabouts.”

Hearing the swordsman quoting classical Japanese poetry was unexpected to say the least. Sanji smiled. “So what’s it mean?”

Zoro half-closed one eye, as if concentrating. “...‘Cherry blossoms scatter: even the demon in me has lost his horns.’ Something like that.”

 

 

Sanji was piqued. “And what does _that_ mean?”

Zoro laughed then. “Whatever the fuck you want it to.”

“ ‘The demon in me has lost his horns.’ Hmm...” Sanji drew on his cigarette, narrowing his eyes. “Like, he’s no longer a demon? He’s no longer bad?”

“Maybe.”

“I like that. Demon reformation. Even bad-ass evil types can be redeemed. By cherry blossom, no less.” Sanji nodded. “Nice message. You know many haiku?”

“Not really.”

“You don’t talk much about things like that... Y’know: Japanese stuff.”

 

 

Zoro was silent for a moment. When Sanji looked at him, the swordsman was looking into the distance, his eyes slightly narrowed. Sanji let out a breath slowly, smoke streaming away and thinning into nothing in the air... Before saying, “Touchy subject?”

Zoro shook his head slightly, his eyes still gazing out over the park. “Huh... Not really. My uncle just wasn’t big on any of it. We spoke Japanese at home; he bought _Hokubei Mainichi_   every day, mainly for the sports section. But other stuff... like Japanese culture, honouring your ancestors and doing things the right way, all that... never came up. It wasn’t till I started going to Koshiro’s dojo that I got any of that.”

“Was it Koshiro got you into reading poetry?”

The swordsman smiled. “Yeah. Amongst other things.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What have haiku got to do with kendo?”

 

 

Zoro‘s hand came up, his fingers rubbing at the back of his head; stirring the short hair there into unruliness. That give-away gesture that the swordsman unconsciously seemed to make when he was unsure of something. Which didn’t happen often, Sanji realised.

“Uh... It’s like...” Zoro appeared to be thinking something through. “A haiku’s short, but it says a lot in a few words. It has to be simple and direct: but get across something intense.” He looked at the chef. “A haiku’s about _kiru:_ cutting. Every word is honed, like a blade. Somewhere in there you get two ideas, with a _kireji_   in between. A cutting word.”

Sanji considered this. “A poem that cuts through to the truth.”

“Yeah.” Zoro nodded. “That’s about as good a way of putting it as any.”

“Like, directness. Clarity.”

“Seeing what is. What’s actually there.” Zoro’s gaze drifted away again, out over the park. “It’s the same with kendo. When you step up against an opponent, you have to really see him. See what’s actually there. But not focus in and get distracted by the details; see the big picture instead. Koshiro told me once to imagine that I was looking at a distant mountain. That way I would be able to see everything, not just the things I was expecting to see.”

 

 

They were both quiet for a few moments. The chef turned over what Zoro had said: tried to see how it fitted into what he’d come to know of the swordsman so far.

_A high school drop-out who quotes classical Japanese poetry, then talks about how he uses philosophy to out-fight people._

“You are full of surprises.” Sanji said this lightly. Meaning it as a compliment.

Zoro gave him a sidelong look. “That a good thing?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Not everyone likes them.”

“Well, I do. Keeps life interesting.”  The chef gave him a smile. After a short pause, Zoro smiled back.

 

 

There was another stretch of silence, where they sat listening to the breeze and the birds and the distant sounds of people in the park. At last Sanji flicked his cigarette onto the ground, extinguishing it with the toe of his shoe, before standing up. “I’m starting to cool down. Let’s head back.”

“First one back gets all the hot water in the shower.” Zoro grinned, before taking off.

“Fucking moss-head!” Sanji set off in pursuit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translation notes:  
> Bon appétit = Enjoy your food  
> Je suis enchanteé de faire votre connaissance = I'm very pleased to meet you  
> Tu parles français! Es-tu française? = You speak French! Are you French?  
> Non, pas du tout = Nope, not at all  
> Jusqu'à la prochaine fois = Here's to the next time
> 
> Japanese/kendo terms are mostly clarified in the text, but here are a few translation notes if y'need them:  
> Yame = Stop, cease  
> Maai = the distance between two opponents  
> Waza = different techniques required to be learned and mastered  
> Reiho = etiquette  
> Zanzhin = state of alert but calm awareness  
> Kata = set of swordsmanship forms practiced to refine technique, posture and kick-ass attitude
> 
>  
> 
> General writer notes:  
> So... This fic is the next instalment of A Wild Combination. It will bring in a couple more of the Mugiwara, and it will be heading in a darker and more angsty direction than the previous instalments. If that’s not your thing then you may want to speed-read or skip some parts of it. I’ll flag specific Nyarghhh-stuff that might be triggering for some folks, probably in the notes at the start of the relevant chapters.
> 
> Also in the middle it will dive off a few years into the past, for a significant chunk of Zoro’s backstory. And then it’ll come back to the here and now. So if backstory ain’t your thing, then sorry. (But you will get to read about Zoro losing his cherry, if that helps at all.) I make no apologies, I kind of like backstory and prying into the why and how of what makes characters tick. I’ll also be writing about Sanji’s backstory at some point in AWC in the near future.
> 
> If you have a rare medical condition that means that backstory gives you hives, you can skip to later chapters, where this fic returns to the here and now. I won’t be offended.
> 
> (Okay, I lied. I WILL be offended. Read the whole thing, damn it. *pouty-lipped writer’s angst fest*)


	2. Wherever You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Every chef gets cut and burned in kitchens. Occupational hazard.” Sanji turned his head on the pillow, looking at the swordsman truculently. “Anyway, you can fucking talk, with the list of kendo injuries you told me you’d had.”
> 
> Zoro returned his look, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t get injured that often.”
> 
> “You think?” Sanji lifted one hand, tallying off what he remembered on his fingers. “Let’s see... Busted collarbone; torn rotator cuff; sprained Achilles tendon; cracked ribs; broken toes. Plus, and I quote, ‘a shitload of bruises just about everywhere’ .”
> 
> “Yeah: so?”
> 
> “So, you’re hardly an advertisement for risk-free living, craphead.”
> 
> Zoro grinned. “Like I care.”

* * *

_Wherever you are_  
_You will carry always_  
_Truth of the scars_

_\- Bush_

* * *

 

 

 “Are your kefir smoothies organic?” The woman with make-up so perfect she looked spookily like an animatronic gazed at Sanji interrogatively.

“Not organic, no. But fresh made while you wait. And the kefir is local-sourced.” Sanji offered her a reassuring smile.

“Do you know that non-organic strawberries have been found to contain residues of thirteen different pesticides?” The woman pronounced this fact with severity, as though Sanji was single-handedly attempting to poison the city’s population.

“No... That’s not something I was aware of.” Sanji kept his smile there. “Maybe something else? Coconut water? Green tea?”

“Do you only have bottled water in plastic bottles? I’m trying to avoid plastic because of the BPAs. They affect your hormones.”

“Right. I’ll look into getting some glass-bottled water from my supplier,” Sanji responded, mentally crossing his fingers behind his back because he had absolutely no intention of doing this.

 

 

A few stressful minutes later he had finally provided the woman with something that she was, if not happy with, then at least prepared to buy and get the hell away from _Bite Me_ (falafel and salad and a mint tea). He was breathing a sigh of relief and watching her walk away when a familiar chuckle made him look round.

“If anyone needs a big dose of hormones, it’s that plastic barbie.” Nami grinned at him, sidling up to the counter.

“Ah, _chérie!_  Where did you spring from?” Sanji brightened, reaching over and delivering a kiss to her proffered cheek.

“I was lurking nearby. Waited till Miss Priss had finished lecturing you on the perils of eating anything that isn’t biodynamically-reared wheat grass juice.” Nami wrinkled her nose. “God. Some people need to get a life.”

“ _Chacun_ _à_ _son gout.”_ Sanji gave a wry smile. “The customer is always right, et cetera. What brings you here? Not that it isn’t always a joy to see you.”

“It’s my lunch break. And I had to head into town to drop off some paperwork, so I thought I’d swing by my favourite lunch spot. Plus it’s been an age since I’ve seen you.”

 

 

Sanji spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. “I know... I’m sorry. These last few weeks have been crazy. I get to the weekend and all I want to do is collapse... After I’m done with all the paperwork.”

“Yeah, right. And I’ll bet you’re collapsing strictly on your own alone at home.” Nami raised an eyebrow. “Not with a certain green-haired individual.”

“Yeah, well...” Sanji smiled. “That comes under the heading of relaxation.”

“I bet.” She let out a snort.

“Anyway, I’m sorry we haven’t met up in a couple of weeks. But we have talked on the phone.”

“Not the same thing.” She shook her finger at him admonishingly. “I can’t taste your food through a phone call.”

 

 

“Mea culpa.” Sanji gave her a penitent bow. “Allow me to make amends. What would _mademoiselle_ care to dine on today? A chicken and salsa burrito?  A samosa? Or are you in the mood for something from the dessert range?”

“You know what I want.” Nami smirked at him.

The chef rolled his eyes. “Banana and chocolate crêpe again?”

Nami held up finger and thumb pressed together in a circle, giving him a wink. “Fry that pancake, kitchen boy.”

 

 

Sanji set to. As he sliced banana and put chocolate sauce to warm through, Nami propped herself against the counter, idly arranging paper napkins in their holder. “Business good today?”

“Yeah, Fridays are usually busy. Which is good, means I don’t have a lot of leftover food to deal with at the end of the week.”

“What do you do with it?”

“If it’s stuff that can be refrigerated or frozen and used next week, I keep it. Otherwise it goes out.”

“You have to throw it away?”

“No.” Sanji took the crêpe batter out of the chill cabinet and whisked it lightly. “There’s a homeless shelter down the block... If there’s a lot of leftovers, I take them down there. They’re always glad for donations. Or if there’s only a couple of things, I cut out the middleman: just find someone on the street and give it to them.”

“That’s sweet of you.” Nami’s tone didn’t exactly match her sentiment.

“It’d only go to waste otherwise. Why not give it to people who could use it.” Sanji set a crêpe pan onto the heat.

“As long as you’re not giving too much away.” This time Nami sounded like she meant it. “You’re running a business here, not a soup kitchen for the poor and needy.”

“I know.” Sanji paused and gave her a smile over his shoulder. “Like I said, it’s just leftovers.”

After a pause, Nami gave him a grudging smile back. “Just checking.”

Sanji returned to his cooking. He had just poured the crêpe batter into the pan and was tilting it to get an even covering when he heard someone else speak behind him, a different but somehow familiar woman’s voice.

“Frying crêpes... What a wonderful smell.”

 

 

Turning around, the chef saw Robin: the college professor who had visited the stall the week before. When she met his gaze she gave him a smile. “You see, I said I would come back for more of your delicious food.”

“Uh, great! Yeah.” This not exactly witty response made Sanji kick himself mentally. “Glad to see you again. Ah, I’m just finishing up here... I’ll be with you in a minute. Please take a look at the menu, there are a couple of new things on there since last week.”

“Oh, there’s no hurry.” Robin gave him a slight nod, before turning to give Nami a smile too. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to queue jump.”

“No problem.” Nami was giving Robin the once-over as only women can do to other women.

“What is Sanji cooking for you?”

 

 

At the revelation that Robin and the chef were on a first-name basis, Nami’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Banana and chocolate crêpe.”

“Sounds delicious.” Robin smiled at her again. “I think I’m in the mood for something a little more savoury, though.”

“Do you like spicy food? I’ve got samosa, or aloo tiki. With a mint raita dip.” Sanji spoke up from where he was finishing Nami’s crêpe, arranging the slices of banana onto it, spooning chocolate sauce over them, then rolling it up into a cone wrapped in a napkin and finishing the whole thing with another drizzle of chocolate and some chopped toasted nuts. He held it out to her. “Mademoiselle’s crêpe. Enjoy.”

“Thanks, hon.” Nami took the crêpe and shifted just a little along the counter, yielding some ground to Robin without actually moving away.

“Is the samosa vegetarian?” the dark-haired lecturer asked.

“I’ve got both: vegetable, or lamb.”

“The lamb, I think.” Robin nodded. “Could I have a little salad with that?”

“Of course.” Sanji opened the refrigerator and took out salad vegetables he’d prepped earlier: shredded lettuce, julienned carrot and cucumber, slivers of red onion. “With raita?”

“Yes please.”

 

 

As he assembled Robin’s food, Sanji heard Nami ask the older woman a question. “So, you’ve come and eaten here before?”

“Last week was my first time. And the food was so good that I decided I had to come back for more.” Robin turned a little away, looking out across the street towards the cherry tree that was still in full bloom. “And it’s such a lovely walk from the college.”

“You work at the college?”

“I teach there.” Turning back to Nami, the older woman held out her hand. “Robin. Pleased to meet you.”

After a moment, Nami took the extended hand and shook. “Nami. Likewise.”

“Do you work nearby too?”

“No. I run my own business from home. But Sanji’s my friend, so I come here for lunch when I can.”

 

 

“A chef for a friend. That’s certainly an advantage.” Robin nodded. “What line of business are you in?”

“I put together personalised vacations and tours for travellers. And I run a travel website: U R Here.”

“Ah, I’ve seen it.” Robin’s brows lifted slightly. “It’s a good website. I like that you don’t just cover all the usual tourist points of interest... You include information about local cultures, how tourists can minimise their environmental impact, and some properly-researched history of the places people can visit. It’s refreshingly different from most of the other typical travel coverage.”

“Well... Thank you.” Nami sounded like she was warming up. “You travel much?”

Robin inclined her head slightly. “When I can find the time. Right now I mostly have to rely on virtual travelling via the internet.”

“Is information technology what you teach at the college?”

“Me? No, absolutely not. Rather the reverse.” Robin chuckled. “I teach courses in archaeology and world history. Also political science. But I do write a regular blog.”

 

 

“Really? What’s it called?” Nami was already digging her phone out of her pocket.

“Bodhi-Tree.com.” Robin repeated the website title, spelling it out. “ ‘Bodhi’ is Sanskrit. It means ‘enlightenment’. Or ‘awakening’, if you wish to be closer to the literal translation.”

“Oh. Is it some kind of... spiritual thing?” asked Nami warily.

“Only in the very widest sense.” Robin smiled. “No. I chose the name because it means getting to the true nature of things.”

“I’ve got it.” Nami had evidently brought up Robin’s blog on her browser, and was now reading off the screen. “Hmm... _‘I’m With Stupid:_ _populist politics and the rise of anti-intellectualism.’_  Wow.” She looked up at the older woman. “That’s quite a topic.”

“I was going to title it _‘Dumb And Dumber’_ , but I thought there might be copyright issues.” Robin looked at Nami’s phone. “Essentially, it’s a five hundred word rant against the fact that many people nowadays no longer want to be obliged to think.”

 

 

Nami’s expression changed subtly, in a way that Sanji recognised. He knew Robin had just passed his friend’s acid test of acceptability. “I’ll look forward to reading that.”

“If you like it, please do leave a comment. Or if you don’t, leave a critique. It’s always good to get feedback.”

“I’ll bet you get some total trolls leaving feedback on _that_ blog article.” Nami slid her phone back into her pocket.

“Oh yes.” Robin’s expression took on a slightly hard edge, just for a moment. “But I’m used to it.”

Sanji finished parcelling up the lecturer’s food, and handed it over the counter. “My advice is not to think about trolls while you’re eating. It’ll ruin your digestion.”

“Sound advice.” Robin inhaled the spicy smell of her samosa, much as she’d savoured the scent of her coffee the previous week. “Wonderful. And with this, of course my drink has to be chai.”

 

 

 

 

Both women lingered at the counter to finish their food and drinks, chatting with Sanji and each other. Several other customers came and went; after about half an hour Robin gave a little sigh, crumpling up her empty packaging and dropping it neatly into the nearby trashcan. “Unfortunately I have a two o’clock lecture. ‘Machiavelli, Prince of Darkness: the battle between good and evil.’ ” She gave an ironic shrug. “Coming up with sufficiently exciting course titles for political science is a full time job in itself.”

“That one sounds like an episode from _Game Of Thrones,”_   commented Nami, grinning.

“Frequently real life – and real history – is even more violent and chaotic than Mr Martin’s wildest imaginings.” Robin gave her a wry smile. “And whatever gets students into my classroom and keeps them awake for the duration, is legitimate academic tactics.” She gave them both a nod. “Nice to meet you, Nami. And thank you once again for a delicious lunch, Sanji.”

“Any time. Have a good weekend, and see you next week.” Sanji lifted a hand in farewell as the lecturer turned and walked away.

 

 

Once they were alone, Nami propped both elbows on the counter and parked her chin in her hands, grinning wickedly up at him. “Never knew you had a thing for older women.”

“What? I’m not... She’s just nice, that’s all.” Sanji knew he was blushing. Grabbed a cloth and began wiping down surfaces to conceal it.

“Yeah, yeah.” Nami could have out-grinned a Cheshire cat. “Attractive, too. And unbelievably smart. Plus she fills out her leather jacket and tailored suit in ways that I know you boys appreciate.”

“She is a stylish and intelligent woman, with charming manners. And I look forward to entertaining her as a regular customer.” Sanji fixed her with a look. “Don’t you have work you should be getting on with?”

Nami laughed. “All right, I’m going. Thanks for lunch.” She swung her bag more comfortably onto her shoulder and gave him a look. “If you’re not spending every waking minute this weekend ‘relaxing’ with Zoro, give me a call.”

“Okay, _chérie.”_   Sanji blew her a kiss. “It’s good to see you. Don’t work too hard.”

“As if. Take care, hon.” Nami returned the favour, before turning and walking away.

 

 

 

 

 

The rest of the day passed quickly. Sanji got everything squared away and cleaned down by five o’clock, and was just closing up the front of the stall when Zoro’s voice came from behind him. “Hey, cook.”

Sanji turned around. “Hi! Did we arrange to meet up?”

Zoro shook his head. “I got off work and felt like a walk, thought I’d come meet you here.”

“Cool.” Sanji turned back to the stall front, securing the folded-down metal shutter in place with its heavy padlock. “I thought for a second I’d forgotten. It’s been that kind of week.”

“Busy?”

“Uh huh. Which is good. Just, I kept forgetting to do stuff. I was up till midnight last night planning next week’s menu and chasing up orders to suppliers. How was your day?”

 

 

“Kind of slow. Couple of clients cancelled, there’s some kinda stomach bug doing the rounds.”

“Yeah? Hope I don’t catch it.” Sanji grimaced. “I hate getting sick.”

“I don’t think anyone exactly looks forward to it, shit cook.”

“Yeah, but when you run your own business it’s a nightmare. No sick pay, for starters.” Sanji moved round to the side door on the unit and checked that it was locked, before taking hold of the heavy metal roller shutter that slid down over it and tugging it downwards. The security shutter slid three quarters of the way down and then stuck, making an unpleasant noise of metal grinding against metal. “Crap... This thing is a pain in the butt. I ought to call the lease company and ask them to come fix it.” He hauled at the shutter again, managing to coax it down a little further. “Shitty piece of junk \- ”

“Need a hand with that?” Zoro leaned with one shoulder propped against the side of the stall, watching with amusement.

“I can manage, thanks.” Sanji straightened up and regarded the shutter resentfully. Before giving it a hard kick.

“Yeah, that ought to do it,” remarked the swordsman.

 

 

“I don’t need a fucking commentary, thanks.” Sanji gripped the bottom of the shutter and tried to shift it downwards: now the damn thing wouldn’t budge. “Oh you motherfucker...”

“If you can’t move it then chances are any criminal types won’t be able to either,” Zoro suggested.

“You obviously haven’t had much experience with the criminal types in this city.” Sanji bent down so he could get his hands more securely gripped on the shutter’s bottom edge. “It’ll move. Sometimes you just have to lift it a few inches, then it frees up.” It was an awkward position to be working in, bent and twisted slightly sideways with his hands down low. He braced himself, then gave a forceful heave upwards.

The heavy shutter rattled but only budged half an inch... And simultaneously a stabbing pain arrowed through Sanji’s lower back, making him cry out.

“Aghh!” He almost fell, his hands clawing at the shutter to stop himself from collapsing onto the sidewalk.

 

 

“What happened?” Zoro was right next to him instantly. “You okay?” The swordsman put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Sanji yelped, clinging onto the shutter.

Zoro took his hand away instantly. “Right: hands off. What the fuck is wrong?”

“My back.” Sanji hissed this between clenched teeth. “I just did something to it.”

“Your back? Where?” Zoro bent down too, getting his face near the chef’s.

“Low down. I just felt it go.” Sanji shut his eyes for a moment. “Fucking _hell,_ it hurts.”

“Okay, just keep still a moment.”

“No shit!” Sanji ground out.

 

 

Then he felt Zoro’s hand touch very gently near his lower spine: flinched. “I said don’t fucking touch me!”

“Calm down and take a breath, cook.” Zoro’s voice was firm. “Where it hurts: is it anywhere near my hand?”

“Bit lower.” Sanji shivered as the swordsman’s fingers moved gently over his back, barely touching. “Yea - ahh! There.”

“Right.” Zoro reappeared in his field of view, crouching down so the chef could see him. “You got any pain running down your legs? Pins and needles, any numbness?”

“Numbness? Are you fucking kidding?” Sanji could feel water coming into his eyes.

“Just answer the question, idiot.”

“No, I am not feeling any numbness or pins and needles in my legs. Mainly because right now I’m extremely focussed on the sensation that someone has stuck an ice pick into my back.” Sanji felt his supporting hand on the shutter slip a little, and groaned.

 

 

“That should mean you haven’t done anything to your spine. Just muscle or ligament damage... You’ve probably given yourself a bad lumbar sprain.” Zoro gave a short nod. “Okay. How’d you want to do this?”

“Do what?” Sanji croaked.

“Need to get you upright and into a cab. Then your best bet is a quick trip to the E.R. They can check you over, make sure it’s nothing serious; and give you a shot of Toradol and some pain meds. Then I’ll take you back to your place.”

“No.” Sanji blinked.

“No, what? No, you don’t want me to take you home? You’re gonna need some help, cook: you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“No, I’m not going to the hospital. Fuck that.”

 

 

Zoro regarded him. “Look, no pharmacist is gonna sell you over the counter the kind of heavy-duty anti-inflammatories and painkillers you need for this kind of thing. Your back’s probably gone into spasm, it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker for hours.”

“I know.” Sanji let out a shaky sigh. “I’ve hurt my back before... At work a few years ago. I had a fall: fucked it up bad.”

“Then you know you should get it checked out.”

“No. It’s just what you said. A sprain.” Breathing too deeply hurt: Sanji tried to concentrate on taking shallow breaths. “Just help me get home, I can handle it from there.”

The swordsman gazed at him for a few seconds longer... Then straightened up with a short sigh. “Okay. I’ll call a cab. But I’m staying with you at your place.”

 

 

The wait for the cab was agonising: the ride back to Sanji’s apartment more so. By the time they pulled up at the kerb the chef felt like there was a sword lodged in his lower back. Even with Zoro’s help, it took a slow creep to get him out of the cab and across the sidewalk to the building. For once he didn’t argue about using the elevator.

Once they were inside his apartment, Zoro guided him to the couch. Sanji just used it to support himself down onto the floor on his knees, before lying flat on his back with a groan.

Zoro looked down at him. “There an ice pack here anywhere?”

“One in the freezer.” Sanji breathed through close-set lips, feeling sweat standing out on his skin.

“Okay, I’ll get it. You got any painkillers?”

“Look in the top drawer in my bedroom. Underneath my socks there should be a pack of Avinza.”

 

 

Zoro’s brows drew down. “Avinza? What the fuck are you doing keeping that kind of stuff around?”

Sanji let out a long breath. “Just get it, okay?”

Without another word, the swordsman left the room. Sanji closed his eyes.

 

 

A few minutes later he felt the slight tread of footsteps, and opened his eyes again. Zoro was down on one knee next to him, holding a glass of water and a couple of capsules in one hand. And still frowning. “Here.”

Sanji managed to lever himself upright enough to take the painkillers and wash them down with a gulp of water, before going back to horizontal.

“Raise up and I’ll ice your back.” Zoro spoke shortly, but Sanji could care less. At that moment pain was the majority of his world. Carefully and with a lot of grimacing he lifted his hips a little, supporting himself with his arms. Zoro leaned in, untucking the chef’s shirt and raising it: then Sanji felt the chill of the ice pack wrapped in a dish towel settle against his skin. He couldn’t help flinching, letting himself lie flat again.

“That ought to help some. You want a pillow for your head?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

 

 

The swordsman placed a cushion under his head, his hands moving carefully. “Your back’s got one fuck of a muscle spasm going on. You sure you don’t want to get checked out by a doctor?”

“I’m not going to hospital.” Sanji said this decisively.

“Any particular reason? Other than the fact that you have a stash of serious pharmaceuticals in your bedroom.” Zoro’s tone had an almost angry edge to it.

“Thank fuck I did. This hurts like a bastard.”

“Answer the question, shit cook. Why no hospital?”

 

 

Sanji frowned slightly. “I really don’t like hospitals.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Can we change the fucking subject?”

“Okay. Want to tell me why you keep opiate meds in your sock drawer?”

“Jesus, what is this? Narcotics Anonymous?” Sanji rolled his eyes, an effect which was wasted on the ceiling he was staring up at.

Zoro let out a slow breath. “Avinza’s morphine. You don’t fuck around with that shit.”

“Thank you for the guidance. For your information, I don’t ‘fuck around’ with it. I got it for pain relief, in case I hurt my back again.”

“Where’d you get it from?”

Sanji shut his eyes this time. “A friend of a guy I went out with a while back. He was a nurse, he could score pretty much anything.”

“And you knew what he was giving you was what he said it was?”

“He worked in oncology wards, palliative care. I knew he wasn’t going to sell me anything dangerous.”

“The fuck...” Zoro’s hard exhalation was followed by a long silence. Which Sanji lay there and listened to, not having too many other options.

 

 

At last Zoro asked another question. “You got anything else tucked away in your room you want to tell me about?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Sanji exploded, then wished he hadn’t: the sudden shout made his back zing with pain. “I’ve had that stuff since fucking _forever_. I’ve never used it. I didn’t need to. I just wanted something that would work for emergencies, in case I wrecked my back again. I am  not a shitty drug addict, nor would I ever want to be. So _get off my case.”_

There was another pause. When Zoro spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Okay. Sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” Sanji sighed; opened his eyes and gazed at the ceiling again. “And thank you for getting me back here and looking after me.”

 

 

Surprisingly, the swordsman let out a _huff_   of laughter. “Yeah: I seem to be doing a bang-up job.”

Sanji found himself smiling. “Although your bedside manner sucks.”

“Uh huh.” Zoro sounded like he was working on being patient. “So... What do you want to do?”

“Well, I was thinking of working on my salsa dancing moves,” Sanji snarked. “What the hell do you think I’m gonna do, moss-head? Till this eases up I plan on staying horizontal. And not in an exciting bedroom-scenario type of way.”

“That might take a while.”

“Tell me something I _don’t_ know.”

 

 

There was a short pause. Then Zoro spoke again. “If you don’t want to go to a hospital and get checked out... How about seeing someone who knows about sports injuries, get them to take a look?”

“You got someone in mind?”

“Yeah.” There was the soft rustle of movement near Sanji’s head, then Zoro appeared in his immediate field of view, kneeling down on the floor. “I was thinking we could try that guy Yosaku saw a while back. Y’know, the one who gave him physio for his knee. Yosaku rated him, said he was really good.”

“You got a contact number for him?”

“No. But I can give Yosaku a call, get it from him.”

Sanji regarded him a moment. Then sighed. “Fielding all suggestions right now, to get me bipedal again. Yeah, go ahead.”

 

 

Zoro nodded. Before getting to his feet again. From his enforced vantage point at floor level, Sanji was just able to watch the swordsman cross the room: pick up his phone and select a number, before speaking.

“Hi, Yosaku. How’s things?” Zoro paused for a moment, evidently listening. “Yeah, I’m good. Got kind of a situation, though, figured you might be able to help... You know that guy you went to, for your knee? The one who helped you out with physio treatment? Well, Sanji’s fucked up his back: looks like he might need someone to take a look at it. You got the guy’s phone number, so we could give him a call?”

There was a short pause, then Zoro reached for a pen and paper from Sanji’s nearby desk: scribbled something down. “Okay. Thanks. Is he still working out of the same place? Great. I’ll call him now.” His gaze shifted over to Sanji. “Yeah, he’s lying down with ice on his back. Figured that would help some. I would’ve taken him straight to the ER to get checked out, but he’s too big a wuss to go near one.”

 

 

Sanji ground out from between clenched teeth, “My back is injured, you shitty moss – but my ears work just fine.”

Zoro, listening to his phone, gave Sanji a mocking grin. “Yosaku sends his regards and hopes you feel better soon. And he says don’t worry about doctors, if you’re a good boy they’ll give you a lollipop after they’ve treated you.”

Sanji managed to lift one hand up, wincing slightly, and extended his middle finger in Zoro’s general direction. “Tell Yosaku he can take a flying fuck.”

“Uh huh.” Zoro grinned wider, before speaking back into the phone. “He’s kind of cranky just now. But he appreciates the sentiment.” He paused for a moment. “Yeah. Thanks for the number. See you at practice next week.” Then he cut the call, before looking down at the chef. “Okay: Yosaku’s given me this physio guy’s number. Want me to give him a call now?”

 

 

“I don’t think I can face another cab ride tonight.” The painkillers were starting to kick in. Sanji could feel the searing knife-like pain that had been lodged in his back since he’d tried to lift the stall shutter growing duller... But he suspected that getting up and moving around would quickly sharpen it again.

“Well, maybe you won’t have to.” Zoro moved closer, looking down at him. “I could just tell him what’s happened, see what he suggests.”

“Whatever.” Sanji let out a small sigh. “As long as I don’t have to move off this floor.”

 

 

Zoro nodded, before keying in the new number to his phone and waiting for a few seconds. His call was evidently picked up by an actual human being rather than an answering service: the swordsman spoke in response. “Uh yeah, hi. I was given your number by my friend Yosaku. He’s been coming to you for treatment... Cruciate ligament injury?” He paused for a moment, listening to someone on the other end of the line, before continuing. “Yeah, that’s him. He says you did a great job of helping him out. Uh, the reason I’m calling is my boyfriend’s just injured his back at work: I think maybe he’s given himself a lumbar sprain. He’s in a lot of pain... We were hoping maybe you might be able to take a look at him?”

There was another short pause, and Sanji mentally ran through what he needed to do that weekend to get ready for work on Monday. He recalled with a sinking feeling how long it had taken the last time he’d fucked up his back this bad, before the pain had eased enough that he could function normally.

 

 

“Really?” Zoro sounded surprised, in a good way. “Yeah, that’d be great. Let me give you his address.” He spelled it out over the phone, before saying, “So you’ll be here around seven? Fine. Just ring the apartment buzzer when you get here, I’ll let you into the building. Yeah. Okay, see you soon. And thanks.”

Sanji watched the swordsman end the call, before walking back to him and kneeling down again on the floor. “Well, that worked out pretty good. He’s got one more patient he’s treating this evening, but he offered to come right over afterwards.”

“He makes house calls?” Sanji felt a mixture of relief and wariness. “How much does he charge for that?”

“He said it was no trouble, he’ll only charge his standard treatment rate. His office is only a couple of blocks from here: and to get home he’d be passing nearby anyhow. So relax, cook.”

“Easy for you to say.”

 

 

Zoro regarded him. “It still as bad?”

“Painkillers are starting to take the edge off.”

“They fucking ought to.” Zoro said this levelly.

“Yeah, yeah...” Sanji rolled his eyes. “Let’s not go there again. So this physio guy... What’s his name?”

“Chopper.”

Sanji raised an eyebrow. “Unfortunate name for someone working in the healing profession.”

 

 

Zoro shrugged. “Yosaku swears by this guy. Said Chopper did wonders when he fucked up his knee, got him mobile again a lot sooner than the doctors told him he would be.”

“Sounds promising.” Sanji shifted his head slightly against the cushion, trying to get into a position that was more comfortable for conversation. “If he can get me back on my feet before Monday, that’s all I need.”

“Let’s see what he has to say about that.”

“I have to be back at work Monday morning. That’s a non-negotiable deadline.” Sanji tried to move his hips, and felt the ice pack slip: grimaced. “Ow!”

“Your back may have other ideas.” Zoro reached out and Sanji felt the ice pack adjusted slightly underneath him. “You want me to bring you anything else?”

“Yeah... A blanket.” While the ice pack was hopefully going to help with reducing the damage, Sanji was starting to feel cold lying on the floor. “And my cigarettes.”

Zoro leaned close in. “You plan on smoking while you’re lying there?”

“Yeah. I do.” Sanji fixed him with a look.

“Okay.” Zoro got to his feet. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Fucking hi-larious, shitty mosshead.” The chef scowled at the ceiling.

 

 

Once he’d gotten his cigarettes and Zoro had spread a blanket over him, Sanji settled into a state that was, if not exactly comfortable, then at least bearable. The Avinza really kicked in, producing a fuzzy-edged haze that spread not only over the pain in his back but through the rest of him as well.

By keeping still with his head cushioned on the pillow, arms loosely curled against his sides, Sanji fell by degrees into a non-thinking place. His eyes gradually closed; he focussed on the softness of the pillow under his head, the pleasant warmth of the blanket contrasting with the coolness of the ice pack lying soothingly against his aching back.

 

 

Fingers touched his hand, making him startle slightly. “ – Nghh... What?”

“Relax, cook.” Zoro spoke quietly by his ear. “Just taking your cigarette before you drop it and set fire to the rug.”

“Mhh... Wasn’t gonna...” Sanji opened his eyes, which felt heavy. He looked up slightly: Zoro was close, kneeling beside him on the floor again. He gave the chef a quick smile, holding up Sanji’s cigarette between two fingers: it was almost down to the filter. “The last ten minutes you’ve just been holding onto this. Figured you’d probably done with it.”

“Oh.” Sanji couldn’t clearly remember lighting it up, even. “...Yeah. Stick it in an ashtray.”

 

 

Zoro leaned over to the low table nearby and did as asked, before coming back to kneeling. “How you doing?”

“Okay...” Sanji tried an experimental slight adjustment to his position, and winced. “...Unless I move.”

“Pain still just in your lower back? Nothing going down your legs?”

“Yeah. Still hurts like fuck though.”

“Uh huh.” Zoro glanced at his lower back. “Your muscles were well and truly in spasm, they probably still are. But at least you haven’t given yourself a herniated disc, looks like.”

“Praise Buddha for small mercies,” Sanji responded drily. “You sure about that?”

“If you’d fucked up your spine, trapped a nerve or something, you’d be feeling it down here as well.” Zoro laid a finger first on the chef’s hip, then on his thigh. “Sciatic nerve’d be ringing your bell pretty loud. Or you’d maybe be feeling pins and needles, something like that. That’s why I asked about that, earlier.”

 

 

Sanji reflected that if he had to suffer with a bad back, then at least he was fortunate enough to have a boyfriend who knew the basics of anatomy and how to handle possible injuries. “I guess sometimes you have to deal with stuff like this at work, huh.”

“Pretty regularly.” Zoro nodded. “Some people don’t warm up properly, or work with heavier weights than they ought to. Macho bullshit... So they wind up wrecking themselves. And yeah: we have to pick up the pieces.”

“I can’t believe I did this to myself... Crap.” Sanji thought again of what needed doing before he started work again on Monday. “I have supplies to pick up from the wholesalers tomorrow.”

“Guess they’ll have to wait.”

“I need them for next week.”

Zoro folded his arms. “Well... Write a list, I’ll go pick ‘em up for you.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Got nothing particular planned for tomorrow, anyway.”

“That’d be great.” Sanji felt some of his anxiety subside, a smile coming onto his face. “And it definitely scores you Good Boyfriend points.”

Zoro snorted. “Uh huh.”

 

 

They were quiet for a moment. Then Sanji said, “What time is it?”

“Coming up to half-six.”

“That means this Chopper guy’ll be here soonish.”

“He said he’d make it by seven. Why?”

“I was wondering what to do about fixing dinner.”

“That oughta be interesting. Just exactly what can you cook, lying on your back?”

“Craphead.” Sanji gave him an unamused look. “There’s stuff I’ve precooked, in the freezer: it only needs to be heated through. I’m just trying to remember what.”

“Want me to go look?”

“No, I know what’s in there... Give me a sec.” Sanji ran through a mental map of his frozen foodstuffs. “Hmm... There’s lasagne in there. You like lasagne?”

“Whatever.”

“Okay then.” Sanji pictured his freezer. “Second drawer down, near the back... If you take it out now and put it in the microwave to defrost, while this physio’s finished working on me it can go in the oven to cook. It’d be better with some salad though... How are you with making salad?”

Zoro’s expression went deadpan. “That’s a bunch of raw stuff in a bowl, right?”

The chef narrowed his eyes. “How is it you haven’t died from scurvy before now?”

“Don’t start lecturing me on staying healthy, curly brow. You’re the one lying incapacitated on the floor.” Zoro got up. “Second drawer down in the freezer, right?”

“It’s in a Pyrex dish covered with plastic wrap. Make sure you take the wrap off before you put it in the microwave. Ten minutes on the ‘defrost’ setting!” Sanji had to shout this last instruction, because Zoro had disappeared into the kitchen.

 

 

Supper preparation taken care of, there was little to do except wait for the physiotherapist to turn up. Sanji had gone back into an almost-doze when the apartment buzzer went off, making him jump and a sharp twinge shoot through his back. “Nghh...”

Zoro crossed the room and answered the intercom. “Yeah?”

_“Hi, I’m here to see Sanji Black?”_

“Great. Come on up.” Zoro triggered the downstairs door release for the apartment block.

 

 

Lying on his back on the floor, a minute later Sanji heard his apartment door opened, and Zoro exchanging greetings with the arriving physiotherapist. Footfalls headed into the room, and the swordsman reappeared with a person in tow who approached Sanji and stopped beside the chef.

_What the fuck!?_

The guy looking down at Sanji wore an expression that was half an awkward smile of introduction, half professional concern. Which implied that this had to be the physiotherapist: Chopper, or whatever the hell his name was. Except for the glaring detail that the features peering down at him belonged to someone who looked like a teenager.

_No way is this the guy._

 

 

Extending a hand, the youth leaned down. “Hi, I’m Tony Chopper.”

Which settled it. Sanji gazed back up at the kid bending over him. “Uh. I’m Sanji.” He lifted his own hand in a reflex gesture to shake the other’s: winced slightly as he did so.

“Please don’t move if it hurts,” Chopper said quickly.

“It’s okay.” Sanji let his hand fall after exchanging the handshake, still blindsided by the physiotherapist’s juvenile appearance. Wide, slightly slanting dark brown eyes were set above a snub nose; topped with a mop of russet hair, the fringe falling over brows quirked sincerely upwards. Chopper looked like he’d stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting. “Thanks for coming round on such short notice.”

“It was no trouble, really,” Chopper answered with a reassuring smile. “I’m happy to be of help. Ah, speaking of which...” His eyes travelled the length of Sanji’s body. “Your friend, um...”

“Zoro,” the swordsman supplied, from nearby.

“Zoro.” Chopper nodded quickly. “He said that you thought you’d given yourself a lumbar sprain? At work?”

“That’s what we figured.” Sanji nodded.

“So you’re experiencing pain in your lower back?”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Sanji saw Chopper’s brow furrow slightly, and modified his answer to a more helpful one. “Yes: bad pain in my lower back.”

“Did it come on suddenly, or gradually?”

“Very suddenly.”

“What were you doing when it happened?”

 

 

Sanji let out a slight sigh. “Trying to lift something heavy, from a crappy position.”

Chopper nodded slowly. “Was your spine twisted at all?”

“Yeah. And I was bending over, instead of keeping my back straight and using my knees to lift. I did all the wrong fucking things.”

Chopper gave him a small smile. “Sounds like I can skip my usual lecture about safe lifting technique.”

“I knew what I should have done. I just didn’t do any of it.” Sanji said this slowly, thoroughly connecting to the frustration of what he’d inflicted on himself. “And now I’m going to be laid up for the entire weekend. I’m an idiot.”

“Oh no, not really.” Chopper said this earnestly, as if trying to reassure him. “Lots of people forget things like that. I’m always treating clients who’ve injured their backs, it’s a very common problem.”

“Yeah... But I should’ve known better. I’ve done something like this before.” Sanji was still mentally kicking himself.

 

 

“You’ve injured yourself like this before?” Chopper produced a notebook and pen, regarding him. “I need to make a few notes - is that okay?”

“Sure.” Sanji watched the physiotherapist’s pen travel rapidly over the notebook’s page. “And yeah: this is the second time I’ve done this. I threw my back out at work, a couple of years ago.”

“And how did that happen?”

“I was moving a crate of food: tins of olive oil, it was heavy. One of the tins had leaked through the crate onto the floor and I slipped on it.” Sanji sketched a gesture in the air with one forefinger. “Went down on my ass, still trying to hold onto the crate. Wrecked my back so bad I couldn’t get up off the floor. The other guys in the kitchen had to pick me up and walk me to a cab.”

“Did you see a doctor?”

“I had a friend of a friend who was a nurse... He took a look at me, said I’d probably just sprained the muscles. I rested up and took some painkillers.”

 

 

Chopper scribbled on his notepad, frowning slightly. “But you never got it checked out by a physician? No x-ray or MRI?”

“No need. I was back at work within a week.”

“And how long did it take when you had this injury, before you were back to normal? Totally pain-free and fully mobile?”

Sanji hesitated. “A month or two, I guess.”

Chopper nodded, the slight frown still there. “Mm-hm.” He made one last note, then folded his notebook shut and set it aside. “I think I’d better take a look. Can you roll onto your front?”

 

 

For an answer Sanji slowly turned over onto his stomach, wincing at the clutch of pain that jabbed through his lower back.

“I iced him up.” Zoro’s voice reached the chef. “Figured that might help some.”

“Always a good idea,” Chopper responded approvingly. “It certainly won’t have done any harm. Okay, let’s see... Hmm. That’s quite a muscle spasm you’ve got going on.”

“Tell me about it,” Sanji replied, gritting his teeth.

“I’m going to move my fingers very gently over your back.” Chopper spoke quietly. “I want you to tell me where the pain is mostly located.

 

 

Sanji felt the physiotherapist’s touch, light and careful, move across his skin; mapping the areas of damage. As he’d been asked, he confirmed to the younger man wherever the pain was intense. From the chef’s lower back, Chopper’s hands moved in wider trajectories, navigating up Sanji’s spine and over his ribs. Down over his hips, buttocks and the tops of his thighs.

At last Chopper’s touch lifted away. “Okay. Your friend Zoro is right. You’ve definitely sustained an acute sprain in your lumbar region. There are no signs of spinal nerve damage; your reflexes are all good, and you tell me that there’s no pain tracking down your legs or anything like that. So I think we’re looking at a soft tissue injury here.”

“Uh huh.” Sanji let out a slow breath. “So I’m looking at least a few days before it eases up.”

“Well, let’s see,” Chopper answered, in upbeat tones. “I’m not promising anything; but hopefully after I’ve given you a treatment this evening, you’ll feel some improvement straight away.”

“That would be good,” Sanji responded, although he was less optimistic than the physiotherapist.

 

 

“Before we get started, just a couple more questions: are you taking any prescribed medication? And have you any pre-existing health conditions?”

“No, and no.”

“And have you taken anything for pain relief, since you did this today?”

“...Yeah.” Sanji didn’t especially want to ‘fess up to exactly what he’d taken; but after a moment’s inner debate he decided that he better be straight with the physiotherapist. “I, ah, had some Avinza left over from the last time I hurt my back... So I took a couple. When I got back here, about an hour ago.”

“Avinza?” Chopper sounded somewhat surprised. “Um... I don’t know if you’re aware, but that’s a discontinued medication.”

“Uh huh. But it works.” Sanji wasn’t going to get into another debate about it.

 

 

There was a brief pause: then Chopper spoke again. “Well, I should be able to reduce the pain by treating you, certainly to the point where you won’t need to take Avinza again. But you could take an over-the-counter anti-inflammatory, there are a couple which I can recommend.”

“Right.” The chef made this reply readily. “So... How are we going to do this? Do I need to get up off the floor, onto the couch or something?”

“I can do some of the treatment with you here. It might be worth putting a quilt or something underneath you, make you more comfortable when we get to the massage. But for the first part of the treatment session I’ll be getting you to move your back: gently bend and stretch it, with you standing up. It’d be best to have an upright chair for you to use for support while we’re doing that – just an ordinary dining chair, or something like that.”

“How about that one over by the desk?” Zoro’s voice interjected. “I can bring it over.”

“That’ll be fine.”

 

 

“You want me to bend and stretch my back? Tonight?” Sanji felt extremely unconvinced that this was a good idea.

“Very gently,” Chopper replied reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be guiding and supporting you all the time. It’s part of the treatment. It increases the effectiveness of acupuncture if we combine needle insertion with movement, and that’ll resolve the muscle spasms more quickly - ”

“Whoa, _wait up.”_   Sanji’s eyes widened and he found his shoulders tensing. “Acupuncture? _Needle insertion?_  I thought you were a physiotherapist?”

“Um. Yes, I am. And I use a range of treatments.” Chopper spoke in what he obviously hoped was a soothing tone. “Osteopathy, manipulation and massage, electrostimulation, and acupuncture. Didn’t your friend Yosaku tell you that was one of the treatments I used to help him recover from his injury?”

“No. He didn’t.” Sanji was scowling at the carpet now.

 

 

There was a scuff of movement near his head. Then Chopper’s face came into view, as the younger man knelt beside him. “I know that some people find the idea of needles unnerving. But it doesn’t hurt. You might experience some tingling, or warmth. And I really can help reduce your back pain, if you agree to me doing this.” Big brown eyes regarded Sanji almost pleadingly, from that absurdly young-looking face.

_I am about to be stuck full of needles by some kid who looks like he ought to be playing at doctors and nurses._

There was something about Chopper’s face that also made it hard to say no to, though. So Sanji let out a long breath. Before saying, “Okay, whatever. I’ll give it a try.”

The slightly concerned eyebrows lifted: a happier expression took over Chopper’s face. “Great. I’m sure that I can help you.” He sat back, then got to his feet. “Can I use your bathroom to wash up, before we get started?”

“I’ll show you where it is,” Zoro answered.

 

 

Sanji listened to them retreat. He lay frowning at the floor, wondering just how accurate a description _some tingling or warmth_ actually was.

_Shoving needles into me isn’t gonna hurt? Yeah, right._

Footfalls approached him: a moment later the quilt from his bed dropped onto the floor by his face, followed by Zoro kneeling down beside it. The swordsman looked into the chef’s face, and a smile hiked up one corner of his mouth. “Don’t freak out, shit-cook.”

“I’m not freaking out. But no-one mentioned that fucking _acupuncture_ was part of this deal.”

“You scared of needles?”

“No, I totally love them.” Sanji said this with as much sarcasm as he could pour into it. “Who do you know who _does_ enjoy getting stuck with needles, asshole?”

Zoro shrugged. “You heard what Chopper said. It should help deal with the pain. That’s what you want, right?”

“I’m all in favour of pain reduction. I’m just not convinced that being randomly punctured all over my body with needles will have that effect.”

“Acupuncture’s got a pretty good rep for fixing back pain. A couple of my gym clients rate it.”

“Good for them.”

 

 

Zoro let out a measured breath. “You want me to tell Chopper you don’t want him to use it on you?”

“I didn’t say that.” Sanji frowned.

“Okay then.” Zoro folded his arms. “I’d say he’s looking like your best bet for getting vertical again, any time soon.”

“I just hope he knows what he’s doing.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Because he looks like a fucking Boy Scout!” Sanji hissed.

 

 

Zoro gave him a deadpan look. “Well, he’s young, yeah. So?”

“Young? He looks about fifteen fucking years old!”

“Get over it, cook.” The swordsman grinned down at him.

“This is all your damn fault,” Sanji groused.

“Huh? How come?”

“Calling this guy Chopper was _your_ idea.”

“I also suggested you going to the E.R. and getting fixed up. But you wussed out of that option.”

Sanji fixed him with a cold glare. “When I’m mobile again, I’m gonna kick your ass so hard _you’ll_  be the one needing physiotherapy, asshole.”

 

 

Chopper’s return into the room luckily cut this exchange short before it can escalate any further. Stopping beside the chef, the physiotherapist looked down at him. “Are you okay for us to get started?”

“Yeah.” Sanji felt anything but okay with this situation, but figured he might as well get it over with. “Where do you want me?”

“If we can get you up, then standing next to the chair to start with: you can rest your hands on its back for support. And you’ll need to take off your shirt and pants.”

 

 

Sanji did as he was told, using Zoro’s help. As he took up position with his hands resting on the back of the chair he felt somewhat self conscious, standing there in nothing but his boxers. Then his gaze fell on Chopper: the physiotherapist had brought out a small leather case, which he unfastened and opened up, laying it on the nearby table... Revealing a row of silvery needles arrayed by size.

Sanji felt the pain in his back worsen as his muscles tensed. He forced himself to look away. To breathe slowly through his nose, in and out.

_It’s all right. You can do this. And you have control. You can say stop at any point._

 

 

Chopper approached him, giving him a reassuring smile. “I’ll begin by working on some of the Empirical Points. If you feel any discomfort or pain at all, just tell me and we’ll stop.”

“Fine.” Sanji stared straight ahead.

“If you relax your right hand, and keep it resting palm down on the back of the chair... That’s fine.” Chopper bent over, the tiny glint of a needle in his fingers, and Sanji felt just the lightest pressure against the skin on the outside of his hand, just below the base of his little finger. Then something that wasn’t pain, wasn’t anything he could put a name to: a slight sensation of tension or heat. Chopper’s voice sounded again, quietly. “Is that all right?”

“It’s fine.” Sanji was bemused. “Uh... Why are you sticking a needle in my hand, when the problem’s in my back?”

 

 

“Acupuncture works on meridians: energy channels that flow all over the body. When we treat a problem, we often work on areas of the body away from where the actual symptoms are felt.” Chopper explained this calmly. “I want you to try to move, slowly and carefully. First let’s see if you can bend forwards a little.”

Sanji did so: pain instantly spiked through his lower back. “Nngh.”

“Okay, straighten up.” Chopper took hold of end of the needle in Sanji’s hand and did something to it: the chef felt that odd feeling again, somewhere beneath the skin. After a minute or two, he felt something else. The sharpness of the pain in his back dulling slightly.

“Do you notice any change?” Chopper asked him.

“Yeah... I think it just eased up a bit.” Sanji almost didn’t want to admit it, in case it was his imagination.

“Good.” Chopper sounded pleased. “Okay... I’m going to insert three more needles: another elsewhere in your hand, one at the back of your knee, and one in your back itself. For each one we’ll get you to move a little, until you feel the pain. Then I’ll work on each point until we get some reduction.”

 

 

It took a while, with the young physiotherapist pausing at each step of the way to check with Sanji that the chef was still happy with how things were progressing. As time wore on Sanji found that his range of movement was increasing, each time Chopper asked him to bend forward, twist at the waist, lean slightly to one side or the other.

After about half an hour Chopper removed each of the needles, before coming to stand in front of Sanji. “I think that’s gone well. How do you feel?”

Sanji tried a cautious turn at the waist; straightened up, then leaned forward slightly. “There’s less pain.” He looked at the younger man. “Wow... That’s seriously impressive.”

Chopper looked pleased. “You responded very well to the treatment. But it’s important that you don’t overdo things. If you want to lie face-down on the floor again, I’ll complete the session with a gentle massage, just to settle things down a little more.”

“Great.” Sanji moved to where the quilt was spread on the floor, and lay down on it. Pleasantly stunned by the absence of the searing pain that had been there in his back since the moment he’d injured himself at _Bite Me_.

 

 

Calling from the kitchen, Zoro’s voice reached him. “Hey, cook. How long did you say this lasagne had to be in the oven for?”

“About forty minutes. Keep an eye on it, it’s ready when it goes golden-brown on top. Don’t over-cook it, it’ll be inedible if it dries out. Set the timer on your phone.”

There was the distant sound of the oven door being shut, somewhat heavily: Sanji narrowed his eyes. “You better not be busting up my kitchen, moss head!”

Chopper knelt next to him, coming into his field of view. “Um, you okay if we start the massage now?”

“Yeah, go ahead. I’m just making sure that idiot doesn’t set my kitchen on fire.” Sanji breathed out slowly.

“Right. Uh, try to relax.”

Sanji closed his eyes, settling his head more comfortably into the pillow. And focussed on the feel of the physiotherapist’s fingers, as they began gently kneading and moving against his back.

 

 

 

 

Time had gone into indistinct mode. Sanji was quite happy to let it.

“I think he’s fallen asleep.” Zoro’s voice sounded somewhere nearby. “He’s drooling.”

Sanji came up from somewhere fuzzy, with an indrawn breath and a mouth that seemed slow to do what he wanted. “Muhh... ‘M not.” He opened his eyes and blinked at the pillow: felt a slightly damp patch against his cheek, and lifted his hand to check if he had, in actual fact, drooled onto it.

“Rise and shine, cook.” Zoro’s words got Sanji the rest of the way awake. The chef used his hands to push himself some of the way upright, before remembering that he had a bad back.

Except. There was no stabbing pain. Just a stiffness and tenderness, enough that it made him move slowly, but nowhere near the excruciating rigidity that had been there before.

 

 

Sanji sat up all the way, and a blanket that had obviously been draped over him slid off. Opposite him Zoro was sitting on the couch, grinning. “It’s alive.”

Sanji ran one hand through his hair. “...Mhh. Where are my clothes?”

“On the table.” Zoro nodded towards them, still grinning.

“How are you feeling?” Chopper appeared, stepping into Sanji’s field of view with an expectant expression.

Sanji considered. “Actually... not too bad.” He cautiously reached for his shirt and pants: still a welcome absence of major pain.

“The muscle spasms have settled, so the sprain should start to heal.” Chopper watched him slowly get dressed. “But I recommend a follow-up treatment within the next week, just to make sure the injury doesn’t persist.”

“Okay.” Sanji wasn’t going to argue. He couldn’t believe how much improvement Chopper’s session had given him. Turning to face the younger man, he gave him a grateful smile. “I thought I was gonna be flat on my back for the whole weekend... And you’ve got me standing up and moving. You are a total miracle worker, Chopper.”

“Eh, not really.” A slight blush spread across the physiotherapist’s features.

“Really.” Sanji nodded. It wasn’t just the pain reduction in his back: his whole body felt relaxed, warmed through with well-being, as though he’d been lying on a sunny beach for hours. “Thank you, big time.”

“I’m glad it worked for you.” Chopper said this sincerely, smiling too. “You should take things easy tonight and tomorrow. Drink plenty of water, and take a nap if you feel you need it.”

 

 

“Okay. Sounds good to me.” Sanji did feel a little sleepy, but he suddenly became aware that he was also hungry. Turning his head he looked at Zoro. “Hey – how long has that lasagne been in the oven?”

The swordsman snorted. “Looks like you’re feeling better.” At the chef’s frown, the other man gestured towards the kitchen with his thumb. “Don’t worry. I turned off the heat a while ago, like you said.”

“I better go check on it.” Sanji started to move towards the kitchen; then stopped, looking at Chopper. “Hey. It must be getting late... You want to stay for some dinner, before you head home?”

The physiotherapist went pink in the face again, pausing in packing away his treatment kit. “Oh – that’s very kind, but please don’t go to any trouble. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

 

 

Sanji smiled again at the younger man’s easy propensity for embarrassment. On top of Chopper’s youthful features, the blushing made him look even more like a teenager. “Tchh, what trouble? The food’s already prepared, you’d be helping me out by eating some.” As the physiotherapist still hesitated, Sanji pressed home his invitation. “Seriously: I’d like to offer you a meal, part thanks to you for working your magic on my back. And you’d be doing me a favour by being a dinner guest, means I get someone else to exchange conversation with over dinner apart from the moss-head here.”

Chopper was still a little red, but a small smile appeared in response to Sanji’s own. “Um... If you’re sure that it won’t be any trouble... That would be great. Thank you!”

 

 

Once Sanji had ascertained that Zoro hadn’t incinerated the lasagne, he managed to throw together a simple green salad to accompany the pasta, sitting on a chair and using the swordsman as his sous chef. Within fifteen minutes they were back in the main room and enjoying a late supper, with Chopper and Zoro on the couch and Sanji sitting in his upright desk chair to support his still-tender back.

“Oh gosh.” Chopper pronounced this after a few mouthfuls of his dinner, looking up at the chef. “This is so good. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” Sanji responded, wondering when the last time was he’d heard anyone say _oh gosh_.

“Are you a professional chef?” Chopper asked. “I heard Zoro call you ‘cook’.”

“Yes. I run my own street food outlet, _Bite Me_.”

“That must be rewarding,” Chopper responded.

“Well... Yeah, it is. Hard work, but it’s what I want to be doing. I only started up a few weeks back, but the business is doing okay so far.”

“I’m not surprised,” enthused Chopper, swallowing another mouthful of lasagne. “This is just so _great_. I haven’t had lasagne this good since I last ate at my _nonna’s_.”

 

 

Sanji quirked up an eyebrow. “Oh, your family’s Italian?”

“On my dad’s side.” Chopper gave a quick nod. “My mom’s Sámi.”

This was a name Sanji couldn’t place. “Sámi?”

Chopper looked up from his plate. “Lapp is the name people used to use, but my mom’s people don’t like that.”

_As in Laplander?_   Sanji wondered. “So your mom’s... what, Swedish? Finnish?”

“Norwegian-American Sámi.” Chopper gave the chef a slightly sheepish smile. “I know it sounds complicated."

“It sounds interesting,” Sanji affirmed. “How did she and your dad get together?”

“He was working as a doctor up in the Kitsap Peninsula, finishing his final year of surgical residency, and mom was a public health nurse.” Chopper paused. “Um, y’know, up on Puget Sound?”

 

 

Sanji didn’t know. “I suck at geography. But near Seattle, right?”

“Yes. My mom lived in Poulsbo, there’s a big Sámi community there who moved down from Alaska to Kitsap in the nineteen-forties. A few hundred Sámi Americans live there now.”

“How come the Sámi went to Alaska in the first place?”

Chopper gave the chef a small smile. “They were invited over from Norway about a century ago by the government here, to teach the indigenous Inuit how to herd reindeer.”

Of all the unlikely things Sanji had ever heard the government had been involved in, importing Norwegians to teach Native Americans how to herd reindeer was up there in the top ten. “Do they still do it? Herd reindeer?”

Chopper shook his head. “The government changed its policy in the nineteen-forties, made it illegal for Sámi to own reindeer in this country. So most of the Sámi in Alaska moved south, settled in areas where there were already other Scandinavians. Like Kitsap.”

“So is that where your folks still live?”

 

 

Chopper’s face changed, growing sober. “My mom does. She and my dad are separated.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Sanji regretted asking the question.

“They split up when I was still small. Mostly I was raised by dad’s side of the family.” Chopper mustered up a small smile from somewhere. “But I got to live with my mom during school vacations. It wasn’t so bad.”

Sanji nodded. “Well... Good that you had your _nonna_   and the rest of your dad’s family around.”

Chopper gave him a wry look. “Um, do you know what Italian families are like?”

Sanji grinned. “I had an Italian-American girlfriend once. I met her whole tribe when she brought me back home for the relatives to check out, one time. Holy crap, was that an experience.”

“ _Sempre tutti pazzi,”_   Chopper said feelingly.

“ _Non scherzo,”_   Sanji replied.

 

 

Across the table Zoro favoured them both with a steady look. “Does lasagne have the weird side effect of making everyone who eats it speak Italian?”

“Evidently not in your case, craphead,” Sanji noted. “Just eat your dinner and try not to lower the intelligence level of the room.”

“Choke and die, shitty cook.”

Chopper observed this exchange with slightly widened eyes. Noticing this, Sanji made a gesture with one hand. “Don’t worry, Chopper. That’s how this mannerless oaf always talks. Just ignore him.”

“Up you, swirly,” grunted Zoro, returning his attention to his food.

 

 

Leaning forward very carefully to place his empty plate on the low table in front of them, Sanji decided to change the subject. “So both your mom and your dad work in the medical profession. Is that why you decided to become a physiotherapist?”

“Oh yes, I always wanted to work in medicine. My dad wanted to me to become a thoracic surgeon, but that’s not the direction I want to go in. I really enjoyed my Emergency Medicine residency, you learn so much working in an E.R.”

“Emergency Medicine residency?” Sanji blinked. “You’re training to be a doctor?”

“Yes: I finished my three-year residency last September. But I decided to take a year to study some alternative therapies, and practice hands-on treatment like physiotherapy. I thought it might be useful.” Chopper noticed that Sanji was staring slightly. “Er... Did I say something wrong?”

“Just how old _are_ you?” Sanji was now thinking Chopper must have discovered the secret to the fountain of eternal youth.

“Uh, I’m twenty-two.”

Sanji did some quick mental arithmetic. “Wait up. If you finished a three-year residency last year, and you had to get through at least four years of med school before that; and presumably you had to take a college degree _before_ med school...”

 

 

Chopper prodded his lasagne self-consciously with his fork, turning his gaze onto his dinner before mumbling an answer. “I graduated college when I was fourteen. I was in a Gifted And Talented Education program. I got into med school straight after finishing college.”

Sanji gazed at the younger man, who was now blushing so deeply even the tips of ears were red. “That is... seriously impressive.” He tried to remember what he’d been doing when he was fourteen. Mostly fighting with Zeff and suffering a series of embarrassing crushes on oblivious girls at school. “I don’t think I ever met a bonafide genius before.”

“I’m really not that,” Chopper protested, shifting uneasily on the couch. “I’m just good at learning stuff... I always have been. And being a doctor’s what I always wanted to do; I wanted to help people, ever since I saw my mom and dad doing it. I’m not super smart, really. There were a bunch of people on the GATE program who were way smarter than me.”

 

 

Recognising the younger man’s discomfort, Sanji hastened to move the conversation on. “Well, judging by the results of how you treated me tonight, I think you must be a pretty awesome doctor. Do you think you’ll want to go back to Emergency Medicine, make it your speciality?”

“Maybe.” Chopper lifted his gaze back up to meet the chef’s, looking slightly less self conscious. “I’d like to do some volunteering too – work at a free clinic, or for Remote Area Medical or a charity like that. Help people who really need it.”

“Good luck with that.” Sanji was impressed again. “Your mom and dad must be pretty pleased that you’re following in their footsteps.”

That slightly crestfallen look came back onto Chopper’s face again. “My mom is. My dad and me, uh... We kind of fell out over me not choosing a surgical residency. Plus he thinks what I’m doing at the moment is a waste of time.” He gave a small hopeless shrug of his shoulders. “Or that’s what he says in every letter I get from him, anyway.”

As someone with an ornery parent himself, Sanji felt an immediate bond of sympathy with the younger man. “Well, stick your guns. Prove him wrong.”

“I will.” Chopper’s furtive smile briefly resurfaced.

 

 

Zoro made a low noise of assent, at the other end of the couch. “You know better than anyone else what the right thing is for yourself. No-one can make that choice for you.”

Chopper shot him a grateful look. “That’s kind of what I think.”

“Just one thing, though...” Sanji couldn’t resist mentioning it. “ _Chopper_ , as a surname for a doctor... You ever think about changing it?”

“It’s actually my middle name. The Sámi name my mom gave me.” Chopper met the chef’s gaze. “Or kind of, anyway. She called me Jompá: but the other kids at school started calling me Chopper... I guess Jompá was just too weird for them to get their heads around. So Chopper just kind of stuck.”

“So your actual name’s Tony Jompá?”

“Antonio Jompá Capriolo.” Chopper looked abashed. “Tony Chopper is way easier for people to remember.”

Zoro let out a laugh. “Yeah... Dr Chopper’s cool. Kinda sounds like some character out of a Marvel movie.”

“You think so?” Chopper looked somewhat cheered by this.

“It’s memorable, anyway.” Sanji carefully leaned forward to pick up his empty plate, then slowly stood up. “You guys mind bringing your own dishes through? You can just stick them in the sink.”

 

 

Chopper also got up. “I should go. You’re probably feeling tired after the treatment.”

Sanji was feeling tired, but that didn’t stop him from being a good host. “I’m okay for a while. You want some dessert before you head on your way? Or a coffee?”

 A slight gleam lit up Chopper’s eyes. “Dessert?”

“You like kulfi?” Sanji had been experimenting with this, as a possible future addition to _Bite Me’s_ menu. “It’s Indian ice cream. I made coconut kulfi a week ago, there’s still some in the freezer.”

“That sounds amazing.” Chopper made a weak attempt to sound restrained. “Maybe I could manage just a little.”

 

 

Dessert, it turned out, was the way to Chopper’s heart. He almost went into raptures on tasting the sweet nutty ice cream, wielding his spoon with enthusiasm and actually polishing the bowl clean, till Sanji took pity on him and dished out a second helping. When the young doctor finally left the apartment he was carrying not only his treatment kit and Sanji’s cheque for the physiotherapy session, but an insulated coolbox with more kulfi to enjoy at home, on Sanji’s insistence.

Once Sanji and Zoro were alone, the sleep the chef had been fending off threatened to overwhelm him. He switched the light off in the kitchen, choosing to ignore washing the dishes till morning. “Oof... I need to crash. I’m wiped.”

“You gonna be okay sleeping on the bed, or you need one making up on the floor?”

“The bed’ll be fine. I’ve got a firm mattress.”

 

 

Sanji yawned his way through teeth-cleaning and general ablutions, before crawling under the quilt next to Zoro, leaving the bedside lamp on for the time being. He felt the softness of the covers, the warmth spreading from the swordsman beside him, and let himself relax against the bed. Breathed in deliberately slowly... then let his breath relax out, too.

Beside him, Zoro grunted. “You okay?”

“Amazingly... yeah.” Sanji shifted his hips a little. There was still a dull ache and tenderness in his lower back, but the fierce nagging pain had eased. “I can’t believe how much better it feels.”

“Better take it easy tomorrow. Chopper said it’d take a while to heal up.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sanji hoped that when he woke up the next morning, his muscles wouldn’t have stiffened up too much.

“You gonna make a follow-up appointment next week?”

“Sure.”

 

 

Zoro let out a quiet huff of laughter. “Changed your mind about acupuncture, huh?”

“All right, smartass.” Sanji slid his elbow sideways, nudging the other man in the ribs. “It wasn’t so bad. And anything that works as well as it did on my fucked-up back, is okay by me. If I’d had someone like Chopper around the last time I did this, it would’ve been great.”

The swordsman snorted. “Figures. You worked in a kitchen with knives and flames, and you wound up totalling yourself because you slipped and fell on your ass.”

“Fuck you, moss-head. That’s what’s called an industrial accident. And anyway, I’ve had plenty of cuts and burns too.”

“Your co-workers must’ve learned to steer clear of you.”

“Every chef gets cut and burned in kitchens. Occupational hazard.” Sanji turned his head on the pillow, looking at the swordsman truculently. “Anyway, you can fucking talk, with the list of kendo injuries you told me you’d had.”

 

 

Zoro returned his look, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t get injured that often.”

“You think?” Sanji lifted one hand, tallying off what he remembered on his fingers. “Let’s see... Busted collarbone; torn rotator cuff; sprained Achilles tendon; cracked ribs; broken toes. Plus, and I quote, ‘a shitload of bruises just about everywhere’ .”

“Yeah: so?”

“So, you’re hardly an advertisement for risk-free living, craphead.”

Zoro grinned. “Like I care.”

“Are battle scars regarded as signs of manly prowess in kendo circles?”

“No-one gives a shit either way. What about chefs? You have to wear one of those lame-ass blue band-aids every time you nick your finger, I’ll bet.”

“It’s food hygiene rules, you moron. No-one wants blood in their dinner.”

“Who’d notice, if you stirred it in?”

“You are a total monster. Blood in people’s _food?”_   Sanji stuck his tongue out. “Ugh. Remind me not to eat anything you cook,  ever.”

Zoro let out a low laugh, deep in his chest. “Is now a bad time to tell you what I did to the lasagne?”

“Spare me. I do not want to know.”

 

 

There was a brief pause. They both lay quiet for a moment.

Sanji found his gaze drifting from Zoro’s face, downwards. The swordsman had only pulled the quilt partway up, leaving his chest and shoulders uncovered.

 

 

_Battle scars._

 

 

The jagged seam of Zoro’s scar was clearly visible even in the dim lamplight, running across his chest. Even though the quilt lay over the rest of the swordsman’s body, Sanji could visualise the whole thing: an oblique connecting shoulder to hip.

 

 

Unsummoned, the memory of Zeff’s question came into Sanji’s head.

_\- How’d he get that scar?_

The question Sanji hadn’t been able answer.

_\- Makes me wonder what kind of thing he was into, that got him carved up like that. And you ought to wonder about it too, eggplant._

 

 

Sanji remembered brushing off Zeff’s words at the time. Telling his old man that he didn’t care. But now, lying alongside Zoro and looking at the swordsman... Sanji realised how the sight, the sound, the everything that was Zoro had thoroughly and irrevocably infiltrated his own life. And that he did care.

That he wanted to know: what the story was, behind that scar.

 

 

How to go about finding out, was another matter. A straightforward approach seemed the best one. But some instinct made the chef proceed cautiously.

“Talking of injuries... I never did ask you.” Sanji moved his hand slightly: just enough that the back of his fingers brushed against the scar on Zoro’s chest. “How you got this.”

A slight frown pulled the swordsman’s brows together. “...Uh huh.”

The chef registered a change in Zoro’s voice. “Okay, none of my business.”

Zoro’s eyes met his. The frown cleared slightly, and the swordsman moved his head against the pillow. “That’s not what I meant.”

 

 

There was a pause. Sanji wasn’t exactly sure what Zoro did mean. He ventured an actual question. “I remember you saying you almost got into serious trouble, when you were younger. Is that when it happened?”

Zoro’s eyes still held his. “Yeah.” His voice was quiet. And then his gaze switched away. “When I was eighteen. Got into a bar fight with a shitfaced drunk: asshole pulled a knife on me, cut me up. No big deal.”

Sanji grimaced slightly. “What did you do?”

“Bled a lot.” The corner of Zoro’s mouth curled up slightly.

“No, I mean... Did the cops get involved?”

“Nope.” Zoro sounded matter-of-fact about it. “No-one wanted the law getting involved. Just two guys having a dumb fight, over nothing. Plus I was underage drinking, so it would’ve been more hassle.”

“What the fuck did this guy cut you with, a machete?” Sanji raised an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty major scar you wound up with.”

“I was shitfaced drunk too, so I didn’t exactly haul ass getting to a doctor. Took me a few hours to sober up enough to figure out I needed to get it looked at.” Zoro pulled a wry face. “Like I said. I was dumb.”

 

 

There was a moment of quiet. Sanji turned what Zoro had said over in his mind. At last he spoke again. “I guess you were fucking lucky that asshole with the knife didn’t aim a few inches higher.”

Zoro looked at him then. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Sanji met the swordsman’s gaze. “Did you ever track him down after, and kick his sorry ass?”

Something trying to be a smile worked its way across Zoro’s face. “Didn’t see the point.”

Sanji decided that was as much as he needed to know. “Fair enough.”

 

 

They were both quiet for a few moments. Sanji turned over what Zoro had said in his mind: let it go, for now. Found himself letting out a long, jaw-cracking yawn.

“Want me to put the light out?” Zoro’s voice reached him.

“Sure.” The bed shifted as the swordsman turned over to reach the lamp: then the room clicked into darkness.

Sanji felt Zoro’s solid warmth lie back down, close beside him. He murmured, “Thanks for helping me out tonight. I would’ve been screwed without you getting me back here.”

“No problem,” Zoro’s low drowsy tone responded.

“Chopper seemed like a nice guy.”

“Yeah, he’s alright.”

“It’s freaky how young he is to be a doctor though. Graduating college at fourteen... Can you believe that?”

“Hm... Yeah... S’cool.” Zoro sounded like he was no longer tracking their conversation.

“You falling asleep, moss head?”

“...Tryin’ to.”

Sanji gave up. Settled his own head more comfortably into the pillow, and let the wave of sleep that had been trying to claim him for the last some time wash over him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is really tough right now (if you've read my short fic Do Not Go Gently you know why), but I'm gonna keep posting chapters of this fic because I need a bit of distraction. My head is all over the map so if there are typos then that's why.
> 
> Translation notes:  
> Chacun à son gout = Each to their own  
> Sempre tutti pazzi = Totally crazy all the time  
> Non scherzo = No kidding
> 
> Lifting heavy things with your back bent and/or twisted is a really bad idea. And taking morphine tablets as a quick fix is emphatically NOT recommended. Go see an osteopath, or a nice friendly doctor.


	3. Where I'm From

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he was a teenager, Zoro learned that telling people the truth didn’t often work out. Not when the truth was as fucked-up as it usually was. Less hassle to tell people what they wanted to hear. A half-truth or an outright lie, something less ugly or less real. Something that didn’t get as close to the bone. As close to himself.
> 
> So he’d kept some truths inside. Until now: because with Sanji, Zoro had thought he wanted to maybe try opening some of those doors, kept locked and barred for a hell of a long time. Let the chef some of the way in.
> 
> But last night hadn’t been like New Year’s Eve, when he’d been raw and angry and alcohol had dissolved his usual control: when the memories had come pouring out, words spilling from him. Last night he’d been stone cold sober, lying in bed beside the chef. When Sanji had asked him about the scar, Zoro’s defences had kicked in. And slammed the door shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning:  
> Non-con / sexual assault scene in this chapter.

* * *

 

_Try to get back to where I'm from  
The closer I get the worse it becomes_

_\- Nine Inch Nails_

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you fucking listening to me?”

Zoro lifted his gaze from his breakfast to where Sanji was sitting at his desk, frowning at him. “Yeah. I’m listening.”

“Then what did I just say?”

Zoro tried to recall the last thirty seconds of conversation, unsuccessfully. “Something about paper towels?”

“Napkins. Paper _napkins._ ” Sanji repeated this with visibly fraying patience. “When you pick up my order, check to make sure they’ve got the quantity right. Last time they charged me for two more packs than I got. They should be deducted off the bill this time. Don’t leave the wholesalers without checking that.”

“Check the paper napkins. Fine.” Zoro picked up his coffee and took a gulp.

 

 

“Maybe I should come with you.” Sanji regarded him sceptically.

“That kind of defeats the object of me picking up this stuff for you in the first place,” Zoro pointed out. “Chopper told you to take things easy for a couple of days. So just sit tight, shit-cook. I can pick up an order of groceries and drop them off at _Bite Me_ without any problems.”

The chef gave him a dubious look. “You’ve got the wholesaler’s address on your phone now, right? Entered into your sat nav? And your phone’s got a full charge?”

Draining his mug of coffee, Zoro stood up. “Yeah. And I have your list. And your full page of written instructions. And your credit card.” He gave the chef a smirk. “Hey, now I think of it... I need a new shinai.”

“Every fucking cent in my bank account is spoken for,” Sanji retorted. “For the next twelve months.”

 

 

Zoro picked up his empty plate and mug. “Being a capitalist running dog not working out how you planned?”

Sanji gave him the finger, from where he sat at his laptop. “Just go and pick up my groceries, errand boy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Zoro went via the kitchen to dump his dish in the sink, before swinging back through the main room to where the chef was still poring over his financial spreadsheets on his laptop. He placed one hand briefly on the other man’s head, ruffling up the chef’s hair with his fingers. “Happy accounting.”

Sanji growled slightly, his teeth clamped on a pencil which he’d stuck lengthways between his lips. “Don’t forget to bring me back some of those anti-inflammatories Chopper recommended. I wrote them down on the back of the list.”

“Okay. Don’t sit at your desk for too long, it’ll fuck with your back.”

“Fine: whatever.” Sanji waved him away.

 

 

Sunshine met Zoro as he stepped outside Sanji’s apartment and onto the street. It was a bright late spring day, almost warm enough to make you think it was summer.

Zoro’s internal weather didn’t match what he was looking at.

_Don’t think about it. Get this damn stuff picked up and delivered._

 

 

Zoro was used to putting his mind to tasks, when things felt difficult. So he focussed on the job in hand: finding the wholesalers; going through Sanji’s order, item by item to make sure it was right; paying for the goods. Then making the journey across town to _Bite Me_ , to offload the napkins and what-all at the catering unit.

It took him a few minutes to get the stall side shutter open, and longer to get it closed again after he’d squared everything away neatly inside the unit.

_That thing is fucked._

He regarded the shutter with a frown. He’d had to use his foot to drive it down the final six inches so he could get the padlock on. He couldn’t see Sanji getting the shutter lifted up on his own on Monday morning, which meant swinging by the stall with the chef to help him open up. That meant calling work and cancelling or rearranging his first client’s personal training session.

_So call them._

Turning away from the stall, Zoro headed for the bus.

 

 

 

 

 

When Zoro got back to Sanji’s apartment, once the chef had let the swordsman in he made his way to the couch and gingerly lay down on it on his back. Zoro eyed him. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just starting to ache a little.” Sanji grimaced slightly. “Did you get that stuff Chopper suggested?”

For an answer, Zoro tossed the pack of anti-inflammatory tablets onto the table. “The guy in the drugstore said, take ‘em with food. That way they won’t hit your guts.”

“Mm.” Sanji carefully reached sideways, snagging the packet, and lifted it up over his face to read it. “You pick up my order okay?”

“Yeah. I stowed it all in your unit, like you said.”

“Thanks.” Sanji lowered his arm, and gave the swordsman an apologetic smile. “I really appreciate you doing that. Sorry for being crabby this morning, I didn’t sleep that good.”

“Uh huh.” Zoro took the chef’s credit card out of his pocket and gestured at him with it. “Want me to stick this back in your wallet?”

“Yeah. Please.”

 

 

When he returned to the couch Sanji was studying the information sheet from the packet of anti-inflammatories. “Fucking hell... No alcohol, don’t operate machinery, don’t drive... Hope these actually _work._ ”

“Give ‘em try and find out.” Zoro looked down at him. “Hey. That side door security shutter, on your unit? It’s fucked.”

Sanji lowered the sheet of paper and regarded him. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You better call the lease company, get them to come take a look at it. I can go with you to work Monday and help you open up, but I won’t be able to do that all week.”

The chef pulled a face. “Fuck. I forgot about that. Yeah, I’ll call them today. There should be someone in their office... If not, think I’ve got an out-of-hours number for them somewhere, for emergencies.”

 

 

Zoro nodded. Before changing the subject. “Can you manage on your own here for a few hours, if I head out? I need to swing by my place, get a change of work clothes so I can go straight to the gym from here on Monday morning.”

Sanji folded his arms across his chest, looking at him. “I don’t actually need a carer, moss brain. I’ve sprained my back: I’m not a paraplegic.”

“Well, you look kind of incapacitated right now,” Zoro pointed out. “Not gonna leave you, if you’re totally helpless.”

The chef’s eyebrows hiked up: his face took on a flush of irritation. “In a minute you’re gonna find out just how much mobility I’ve gotten back, when I plant my foot up your ass.”

“Easy does it, shitty cook,” Zoro cautioned him, with a smirk. “You don’t want to over-exert yourself.”

Sanji glared at him. “Feel free to fuck off any time. No, wait: first pass me my cigarettes and lighter from my desk. Then you can fuck off.”

Zoro did so, tossing them to the other man. “Okay, I’m out of here. See you later. Don’t set the couch on fire.”

Sanji grunted, taking a cigarette out the pack. “C’mere, moron.”

 

 

Stepping up to the couch, Zoro looked down at the chef. Sanji crooked his forefinger. “Humour the paraplegic. Bend over.” When the swordsman did so, Sanji gripped the front of the other man’s t-shirt and tugged him downwards until he was close enough to kiss; then released him. “Okay, now you can fuck off.”

Zoro gave him a wry smile. “Later.”

“Later.”

 

 

 

 

 

Zoro had to wait a while for the bus. When he reached his apartment it was empty, Luffy evidently out adventuring somewhere.

It was too quiet. Zoro could feel himself starting to think. He plugged his phone into the speakers on his desk and pulled up some music: hit random shuffle, not much caring what he was listening to as long as it stopped his brain from working.

His dirty clothes from his work bag went into the laundry pile, and he sorted out a clean gym uniform for Monday, packed it with a few other things. He’d been staying over at Sanji’s regularly enough now that he had the basics there: shaving kit, toothbrush, a change of clothes.

The chef’s apartment felt familiar to him now, almost as much as this place. But he’d had to get out of there. Running that errand to the wholesalers hadn’t been enough; he’d needed to get away. Come back here, be somewhere on his own for a few hours.

His gym bag was re-packed. He set it by the door, looked around to see where his kendo stuff was. He’d take it to work with him Monday, use one of the practice spaces at the gym in his break, he had a free hour after lunch with no classes. Work on his kata.

 

 

_‘Oh, you don't know anything /_  
_No, you don't know anything / about me.’_

 

Zoro found himself standing still by the desk, his kendo bag in one hand. Looking at it without seeing it. Held motionless by the Fit For Rivals track blasting out of the speakers.

 

 

_‘Steady damage, cross the line /  
What's become clearly defined.’_

 

 

An image came into his head. Lying next to the chef in his bed, last night. The other man lifting his hand, the back of his fingers lightly touching the scar on Zoro’s chest.

_-_ _I never did ask you. How you got this._

 

 

Zoro’s hand clenched on the bag, as the music screamed on.

_‘Nothing seems to go your way /  
You'll never amount to - ’_

 

 

He made himself step to the doorway, dropping his kendo gear next to his gym bag.

_‘You'll never amount to shit – ‘_

 

 

“ _Fuck_ \- ”  Zoro grabbed his phone up from the desk and hit pause. The sudden silence felt louder than the music that had preceded it.

Slowly he turned around. Switched his phone off and dropped it onto the desk, before walking to his bed. Falling down onto it on his back, one arm under his head, hand clenched into a fist.

 

 

Zoro stared up at the ceiling. And realised his other hand was lying on the centre of his chest, fingertips lying above the line of his scar. Mirroring the way Sanji had touched it, the night before. He remembered the quiet way the chef had asked him, curious but careful. Wanting to know; but not wanting to make a big thing out of it.

And Zoro had lied, automatically. Hardly even taking thinking time before he answered.

_-_ _Got into a bar fight with a shitfaced drunk: asshole pulled a knife on me, cut me up. No big deal._

His fingers curled slightly; fingernails digging in against his t-shirt, against the skin and flesh below. Until the nerve endings that would always be raw, unhealed, flashed a message of pain. Which he ignored, pressing harder, eyes narrowing.

_I fucked up._

 

 

He hadn’t planned on lying to Sanji. Hadn’t known he was going to lie; but the words came out as though he’d prepared them. Old habits died hard.

When he was a teenager, Zoro learned that telling people the truth didn’t often work out. Not when the truth was as fucked-up as it usually was. Less hassle to tell people what they wanted to hear. A half-truth or an outright lie, something less ugly or less real. Something that didn’t get as close to the bone. As close to himself.

So he’d kept some truths inside. Until now: because with Sanji, Zoro had thought he wanted to maybe try opening some of those doors, kept locked and barred for a hell of a long time. Let the chef some of the way in.

But last night hadn’t been like New Year’s Eve, when he’d been raw and angry and alcohol had dissolved his usual control: when the memories had come pouring out, words spilling from him. Last night he’d been stone cold sober, lying in bed beside the chef. When Sanji had asked him about the scar, Zoro’s defences had kicked in. Slammed the door shut. Maybe the chef didn’t realise that he’d been lied to. But Zoro could already feel the distance opening between them; that he’d created.

Some old saying, some piece of folklore surfaced in his head now, from fuck knows where.

_Better to be despised for who you truly are, than loved for who you pretend to be._

As someone who had been despised - or just plain ignored - for a significant part of his life, Zoro personally thought the concept was overrated.

But that didn’t take away from the really fucking annoying fact, that the saying had something to it. Because being despised for who you really were sucked, for sure. But pretending to be something you _weren’t;_ using a lie to hold onto someone else’s acceptance: that was definitely an even worse deal.

Zoro knew that with total clarity. Not least because last night he’d done exactly that with Sanji. And now he felt like shit.

 

 

_I should’ve told him the truth._

His eyes shut.

_Yeah, right. And then this all goes to hell. Because why the fuck would he stick around after hearing about all of that._

The scar under his fingers ached. Zoro could picture it, even with his eyes shut. Knew every ugly inch, like he knew his own face reflected in a mirror. A daily reminder of how his life had once been just as ugly. And he could cover it up: but it would never go away.

_You don’t fucking know. Who I really am._

He felt a clock ticking down. Unstoppable. Time unspooling, going backwards. To another time, another place. Before he had scars that showed.

 

 

**********

 

 

_About ten years earlier. In a different city._

 

 

It was mid-November: a week after Zoro’s fifteenth birthday, and his life was about to take a dive off the deep-end.

Not that it had exactly been laugh riot anyway, of late. Zoro’s uncle had been losing even more than usual on his gambling binges, if his mood when he got home was anything to go by. And his _oji_  had been compensating by drinking more too: which combination had made for a home life high on confrontation. So Zoro had voted with his feet; found other places to hang out, sometimes for days at a stretch.

His uncle had never been big on wanting to know where Zoro was at, or what he was getting up to... Which came in handy now that Zoro was cutting so much school. His _oji_ ’s response to the one official letter about unauthorised absences that finally managed to make its way home (despite Zoro’s best efforts) had been a short grunt of annoyance, and a terse instruction to Zoro to at least try to show up at school regularly enough that there would be no troublesome visits from officialdom on their doorstep.

That was laughably easy to achieve. If Zoro turned up at homeroom for roll call first thing in the morning, he could disappear for the rest of the day. And even if he failed to do that, he could reliably skip a day or three without teachers getting too bent out of shape about it. His school was a sinkhole for the projects, and for most teachers their day consisted of keeping a fragile lid on a borderline riot situation while counting the days till retirement. Teaching was sporadic and teachers moved on a lot.

Not that Zoro cared: he’d realised a while ago that he was never going to amount to much in the classroom stakes. So he’d pretty much given up trying. Which meant that the teachers gave precisely not a single fuck if he didn’t show up, because all that meant was an empty desk which would otherwise be filled by Zoro sleeping his way through yet another lesson.

 

 

Anyway, there were better things to do than go to school. Which on this day included lying on the couch at Manny’s apartment while his mom was away for a week (visiting her sister), smoking their way through the latest batch of skunk they’d scored two days previous, and watching porn on cable TV. Or at least, Manny was watching porn. Zoro was blitzed and lying on his back studying the cracks in the ceiling plaster, waiting for the world to spin a little slower.

“Mehh... I’ve seen this one.” Manny _tchh_ -ed in annoyance. Seconds later came a _click,_ and the sound of the TV abruptly cut off. “They’re all fuckin’ repeats.”

“That matter?” Zoro didn’t care either way.

“Shit gets boring, when you’ve already seen it.”

“Shit’s boring anyway.”

“Yeah, but... I get horny as fuck when I smoke. Like everyone does.”

“Yeah?”

“For sure. You telling me you don’t?”

 

 

“Sometimes. I guess.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot: Roronoa, iron man. You’re above us lesser mortals.” Manny snorted with laughter. “Or maybe you’re just worried your dick will fall off if you use it.”

“Asshole.” Zoro extended a finger in Manny’s direction. “My dick’s fine, fuck you very much.”

“You taken it out for a test drive lately?” Manny sounded like he was still grinning. “Because I know someone who’d love to sit up front and try it out.”

“Sure you do.”

“Beatriz Garcia, for one. She is totally wet for you.”

“Uh huh.”

“Jesus, sound like you give a shit.” Manny appeared suddenly in Zoro’s field of vision, sitting down heavily on the end of the couch and nudging his legs aside. “Word is, she’s a hot piece of ass. Don’t you want to get some of that action?”

“I’ll give it some thought.” Zoro raised his eyebrows and gave Manny a slow grin.

After a few seconds, Manny chuckled. “You dog.” Then sat forward, reaching to the table where they’d left their stash. “Want another toke?”

“Yeah... Sure.”

 

 

Zoro folded one arm behind his head and watched Manny skin up. Grateful that the risky moment had passed.

_\- She’s a hot piece of ass. Don’t you want to get some of that action?_

Zoro had bullshitted his way through that question. And Manny had bought it. But Zoro was beginning to wonder how many more times he could dodge that particular bullet. Because not only was he aware that he wasn’t feeling any of the same things about girls as every other guy he knew from school; but it was also becoming increasingly difficult to hide the fact that he _was_ feeling something. Towards the guys.

Manny ran his tongue slowly back and forth along the edge of the rolling paper. And Zoro quickly switched his gaze away. Wishing that being fifteen and horny was as simple as Manny made it sound.

And yeah, getting stoned often did mean getting horny. Hell, as far as Zoro was beginning to figure out, being fifteen essentially meant that if you were _conscious_ you were horny. And whereas all the guys he knew – Manny included – seemed to be able to take care of that by watching porn or taking full advantage of girls like Beatriz Garcia, for Zoro that wasn’t going to cut it. So he’d decided to try seeing how stoned he had to be before the urges went away.

Not stoned enough so far, as it turned out.

 

 

Deep down in a dirty undercurrent of his consciousness, he knew there was a part of him that was kind of hoping that something else would happen. That maybe Manny would get stoned enough and horny enough that he’d be open to the idea of... some experimentation. With Zoro. Because if they were both _really_   fucking stoned and one thing just led to another, then maybe it could be passed off as just fooling around. Two guys getting each other off. That happened, without meaning anything. Right?

It sounded plausible. And that deep down part of Zoro wanted it. But the rest of him, the part that never quite let go the reins no matter how stoned he got, knew the chances of that kind of scenario going wrong were pretty fucking high. Which would be about the worst thing that could happen: getting suddenly outed in his neighbourhood. Where being identified as a faggot was not a ticket to a high quality life. Or a long one.

 

 

A wisp of smoke curled past, followed by the long sound of Manny letting out a controlled exhale. “Hahhhhh... That is some good shit.” And his weight shifted back against Zoro’s legs, as he settled more comfortably into the couch. “Fuck...”

Zoro lifted a foot: rested it briefly against Manny’s shoulder, giving him a slight shove. “So pass it along, fucker.”

Manny took another hit, before passing the joint leisurely in Zoro’s direction. Zoro fielded it and stuck it in his mouth, before inhaling deep. Holding it until he felt the world begin to spin again. Closing his eyes.

_This isn’t so bad._

He could feel the warm weight of Manny leaning against his legs. The slight burn of the smoke in his lungs, a roughness in his throat. That nice slackening of everything worrisome, the world and its complications just going a little bit the fuck away for a while.

_Buzzed._

 

 

Zoro was just taking the joint back from Manny for the fourth time, and had almost stopped thinking, when a sound reached them that sent Manny flailing to sit upright, inadvertently planting one hand in Zoro’s stomach as he did so. “Jesus – Fuck!”

“Hnn - ” Zoro also jumped, jerked down from cloud nine by the shove in his solar plexus. “Uhh?”

The slam of the apartment’s front door got them both sitting bolt upright. And exchanging a single wide-eyed stare.

A woman’s voice called loudly, from down the corridor that led to the main room. “Manuel? What are you doing home?”

 

 

“Fuck!” Manny began scooping rolling papers and grass up off the table, grabbing the brimming ashtray.

“I thought you said your mom wasn’t due back till the weekend!” Zoro hissed.

“That’s what she fucking said!” Manny retorted, shoving their stash into his pockets and looking around wildly for a place to hide the ashtray evidence of their smoking session.

The woman’s voice was coming closer. “Manuel, answer me! If you’ve been cutting school again you’re in big trouble, you hear?”

And then the door to the room opened, and the jig was most definitely up. Because what greeted Manny’s mother was basically two teenagers sitting red-eyed and blinking on the couch in a room that smelled so strongly of skunk that you could probably have got a contact high just from walking in there. And surrounded by a litter of empty cans, burger wrappers, and assorted debris from three days of goofing off and getting high. Not to mention that Zoro was still holding the remains of the joint, as he’d been too out of it to do anything as smart as losing it somewhere.

 

 

Manny’s mother took in the sight – and the smell – of her living room; the state of her son; and the poised-for-flight crouch of both boys. Before her gaze rested on the thread of smoke wisping up from the joint between Zoro’s fingers. “Goddamn. Is that drugs? You are smoking _drugs_ in my living room?” Her voice crashed up in volume. “I go away for three days, and come back to find you smoking _yerba_  in my home?” She strode up to the couch and her hand flew out, smacking across the side of her son’s head. _“_ _Menso! No seas cabeza hueca!”_  Then her gaze lit onto Zoro. _“Pendejo!”_

Zoro was up off the couch and moving towards the door before he had time to think about it. Not wanting to get into it with Manny’s old lady, because there was really no point as she’d caught them red-handed. And probably the best thing he could do for Manny right now was bail.

Her fist flew through the air at him, just missing: he felt the wind of her blow. “You better run, _cabrón!_ I’m gonna bust your face!”

Zoro didn’t need telling twice. He grabbed his jacket from the floor and made a swift exit from the apartment, taking the apartment block stairs two at a time and pursued by the loud angry shouts of Manny’s mother.

 

 

He was half a block away before he quit running. Which was when he realised he was still holding the remains of the joint. He flicked it away into the gutter, before shrugging on his jacket and finally catching his breath.

_That was fucked up, big time._

Getting caught mid-toke by someone’s mother. _Shit._ Zoro had no idea how Manny was going to talk his way out of that situation, but he didn’t envy him. Zoro felt a little bad about fleeing the scene of the crime, but on the other hand staying there wouldn’t exactly have helped. He wondered if Manny’s mother knew who he was. If she would demand that information from Manny. Before calling Zoro’s uncle, and informing him what had gone down.

_ Fuck _ _._

The last thing Zoro needed right now was something else to put a bug up his _oji’s_ ass. His uncle had been pissed enough at the world in general and Zoro in particular lately: this would be the last fucking straw.

 

 

_Maybe if I tell him first?_

Zoro wasn’t sure how that might play out. But at least if he headed home and scouted out the lay of the land, he could either intercept Manny’s mother’s call, or lay some groundwork. Which would have to involve a certain amount of creativity with the truth. Like for instance telling his uncle it was the first time he’d ever smoked grass. That he’d gone along with Manny because of peer pressure.

And Zoro had zero guilt about this: because he was pretty damn sure that this would be exactly what Manny was telling his mom, right about now. With the essential difference of Zoro being cast in the bad-guy role.

 

 

It took him a while to walk back to his apartment block, and by the time he reached it Zoro had recovered a little from the shitstorm at Manny’s place. He’d crafted a more or less believable version of what story to offer up: with a few alternate endings, depending on whether or not his uncle had received a bulletin from Manny’s mother first. As he climbed the stairs up to the first floor, Zoro rehearsed things in his head. And also found himself considering the not-unlikely prospect that even if his uncle did find out about what his nephew had been doing, he might well not give much of a fuck.

Sometimes there were advantages to not having parents.

 

 

Zoro reached his apartment door, and cautiously put in his key. Intending to turn it quietly and sneak in unheard, in the possible event that his uncle was (a) home and (b) awake and sober. This didn’t go to plan, because the fucking lock refused to cooperate and Zoro found himself wrestling with it. He struggled with it for a minute or so, pushing on his key and failing to turn it either way. Took the key out and reinserted it: tried again. With exactly the same lack of results.

_ Shit _ _._

Zoro jiggled the key: tried to twist it forcibly, until it felt like the damn thing was going to break in the lock. Let out a long angry breath, feeling like the whole damn universe was stacking up against him.

_Well, staying out here all fucking day is a shitty plan._

He tried the key again: the lock still resisted his efforts. He wondered if maybe his uncle had come back and inadvertently double-locked the door on the inside. And was now snoring off a night’s drinking.

 

 

Zoro rested his head against the door: brought his mouth close to the woodwork. “Oi... _Oji-san_ \- it’s me. My key’s not working... Let me in!” He paused and listened. Nothing. “ _Oji-san!”_  He brought up a fist and knocked hard on the door. Waited again. Still nothing. “Oi, wake up!” This time he thumped harder. Then finally getting frustrated, he lifted one foot and stomped the sole of his boot hard against the painted wood. “Oi!”

Not a single answering sound met him in response. Zoro stood and scowled at the closed door. Thought for a moment. Then backed up a couple of steps into the passageway... before throwing himself shoulder-first at the apartment door, hoping to force the lock open like they always did in TV cop shows.

He hit the door hard and bounced off it, winding up clutching his shoulder and swearing loudly in Japanese. It hurt like a _bastard_. And the door was still closed.

_Stupid fucking cop shows._

Zoro gave the door another kick to vent his feelings, still spitting out curses – then jumped about a foot in the air when a hand grabbed his shoulder and an angry voice blared in his ear. “What the hell are you doing?”

 

 

Zoro turned around to find an unwelcome face close to his. Their landlord: old Mendez, scowling and folding his arms across his chest. “I heard you clear all the way from downstairs, cussing and smashing things up! What are you doing here?”

Zoro held up his key. “I was just trying to get into our apartment! The lock’s jammed. Or busted, or something.”

Mendez shook his head. “No it ain’t.”

“It is,” Zoro insisted. “It won’t open.”

“Yeah, ‘course it won’t. On account of it’s not broken: it’s a new lock, dumbass. I changed it yesterday.”

“Huh?” Zoro frowned. “Well, I didn’t know the old one got busted. I don’t have a key for this one.”

“Yeah. You don’t.”

Zoro waited. Then tried moving things along. “So, can I have one?”

Mendez regarded him as if he was the slowest learner in school. “What the hell point would there be in me changing the locks, if I gave you the key?”

 

 

This was getting complicated to follow. Zoro wondered if this was how days turned out, when you smoked a lot of skunk. “How else am I gonna get into our apartment?”

“You’re not. Because it ain’t your apartment any more. I served an eviction notice, four weeks back. Which your goddamn uncle did exactly zip about. So as of Monday, you pair of freeloaders are officially ex-tenants. I didn’t expect to see either of you back here.”

“We’re... what?” Zoro felt his day deteriorate further. “You’re _evicting_ us?”

“I’ve _evicted_ you, numbnuts. I’ve got new tenants moving in two days from now.”

“You can’t do that!”

“You bet I can. Three months’ unpaid back rent says so. I gave your uncle enough frikkin’ warnings, but he just kept stiffing me. You think you people can get away with that forever? I got bills to pay.”

 

 

Zoro stared at the landlord. Then at the closed apartment door. “You can’t fucking do this.” But knowing, with a cold sick feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, that he could.

“It’s legal, and it’s done. You wanted to do something about it, shoulda got your uncle to pay me my back rent. Which I’m _never_ gonna see, you pair of Jap fuckers.”

Zoro clenched one hand into a fist. “Open this goddamn door.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do, you mouthy little shit. Are you hard of hearing? You don’t live here any more. Find a new neighbourhood to lower the tone in.”

“All my _stuff_  is in there.” Which in truth wasn’t much, but it was his, and Zoro was fucked if he was going to let this old fart keep it.

“Not any more.” Mendez grinned nastily. “I cleared all the crap out yesterday, right after I changed the locks. Had to get the place straightened up for the new tenants.”

 

 

Something snapped inside Zoro then. He grabbed the front of the man’s jacket, fingers clenching on the cloth. “You crazy old _motherfucker_ \- ”

Mendez broke the hold by the simple expedient of punching Zoro just once, very hard, in the pit of his stomach. Zoro fell back against the wall, the breath knocked out of him; and heard Mendez growl, “Cool off, you little cocksucker.”

Fighting to get his wind back, Zoro propped his hands against his knees. Pushed himself upright as soon as he could manage it and glared at their former landlord. “You telling me my uncle just let you march in there two days ago and kick him out, trash all our stuff? I don’t fucking believe it!”

“I ain’t telling you shit. I haven’t seen that worthless bum since last week. Don’t have to, neither: you got served an eviction notice a month back, like I said. This is my apartment, and as of Friday it’ll have someone new living here. Someone who actually pays the fucking rent. So you and your uncle can go find someone else to leech off.”

 

 

Zoro pressed his hands against the wall at his back: felt his fingers scrape against the cold hard surface.

_This is really happening._

The sick feeling in his stomach hadn’t been helped by the punch that Mendez had landed there. “So where’s my uncle gone?”

Mendez snorted. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“How am I supposed to find him?”

Raising an eyebrow, the landlord shrugged. “Do I look like I give a shit? Sort out your goddamn family dramas in your own time.” As Zoro looked somewhat hopelessly at the closed apartment door, Mendez added, “I’ll tell you what I told those two guys who came looking for your uncle on Tuesday: he moved on without leaving a forwarding address.”

“Two guys?” Zoro looked at him.

Mendez grunted. “Yeah, two more of you Japs. Who were pretty pissed about not finding him here, if I’m any judge.” His gaze rested on the youth. “Looks like I’m not the only person your uncle owed money to. My guess is he won’t be coming back to pick up his mail.”

 

 

Zoro wasn’t surprised. Not exactly. His uncle had been having a long losing streak, these past few months. Sooner or later, that was going to catch up with him. _Had_ caught up with him. And it had caught up with Zoro, too: no matter that he had no say in this, it was done. They were evicted. Homeless. And his uncle had to be flat broke. So how the fuck were they going to find a new place to live?

_Back up. How the fuck are you going to find him, first?_

Zoro came out of his dismal downward spiral of thinking when Mendez’s finger poked him in the chest. “Hey. Space case.” Zoro’s head snapped up, and he gave a quick scowl at the landlord. “Time’s up. Quit cluttering up my landing, and make yourself scarce. Or I’ll call the cops, and they can have the pleasure of tossing your ass down those stairs.”

“I’m going.” Zoro stepped away to a safe distance, before giving the old man the finger. “Fuck you, you old bastard.” Then he turned and ran down the stairs, hearing Mendez’s parting insults fade behind him.

 

 

Anger kept Zoro running for some time before he slowed down. He found himself walking unsteadily along a street he didn’t recognise, somewhere a good distance from his apartment. From his _former_ apartment. Found his hands balled up into fists in his pockets, shoulders tensed: fingernails digging into his palms. Thinking about his uncle.

_You stupid motherfucker._

Zoro still couldn’t take it in. Homeless. They were fucking _homeless._ Okay, so their apartment hadn’t exactly been a palace and increasingly Zoro had found other places to be, but it had been a roof over their heads and now it was fucking _gone,_ and all because his useless idiot asshole _oji_   didn’t have the basic smarts to stop gambling when he was shit out of luck.

He felt chill wet pinpoints strike against his face, his hair. Looked up, into a grey lowering sky starting to weep with rain.

_Fucking perfect._

 

 

Zoro made for a doorway and stood in it. Folded his arms across his chest and pulled his hoodie up over his head because as well as the rain there was now a cold wind starting to pick up.

_This day totally sucks._

He considered his options. Which were pretty damn limited.

Firstly: trek round the few places he knew his uncle sometimes hung out in and ask about, see if anyone knew where he was at.

Secondly: find a place to crash for tonight, in the likely event of the first course of action producing nothing useful straight away.

Thirdly: don’t freak out. Because he could deal with this. By following the first and second options, and repeating them as necessary until he tracked down his sack of shit of an uncle.

 

 

The possibility that this last thing might not happen never occurred to him.

 

 

Zoro stuck his hand inside his jacket pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Squinted at its cracked and rain-smudged screen, as he keyed in Manny’s number and typed a quick text.

_‘hey i need a place to crash 2nite. yr mom still there?’_

There was a long pause before he got a reply.

_‘ayfkm?! she is mad as fukin hell dont even think about comin here’_

Frowning, Zoro typed another message. _‘just 1 nite, i can sneak in late after she goes 2 sleep & be gone early’_

Another much shorter pause, then another answer: _‘u show yr face here u r dead, not fkn kidding’_

Zoro gritted his teeth. Tried again. _‘srsly dude i have no fkn place else to go’_

There was a long wait for the reply. Which when it landed he read with a sinking feeling.

_‘nmfp’_

And nothing else.

 

 

Zoro stared at the phone screen. And felt anger burning up inside him again. “Rrrghh!” His hand clenched on the phone, and he almost smashed it against the wall at his side. But didn’t, because that wouldn’t help.

Instead he shoved his phone back in his pocket. Shoved his hands deep down into his pockets too, clenching them into fists so hard his fingernails bit into his palms.

_Fuck. This. Shit._

He let out a single hard exhalation. Then looked out of the doorway, up at the grey sky bleeding rain down onto the street.

 

 

******

 

It was almost a week later, and it was still raining.

Zoro sat in the corner of a shitty burger joint, tucked away where he was least visible from the serving counter. He’d walked in there two hours previous, bought the cheapest thing on the menu – a coke – and sat at this corner seat, drinking it a sip at a time.

The coke was long gone, but thanks to the cardboard cup no-one could see that. Every time one of the burger joint’s staff came to clear a nearby table Zoro had stuck the straw in his mouth and acted like he was still drinking. He wasn’t sure how much longer that was going to work, though. One of the staff – a lanky guy with an acne-ridden face that wasn’t helped by the garish orange uniform he had to wear – had given Zoro an unfriendly stare the last time he came to sweep crumpled burger wrappings and abandoned cups off a table.

 

 

The staff had been pretty quick to clear the remains of customers’ meals away, which was annoying. Zoro had half hoped he’d get the opportunity to swipe someone’s leftovers, when no-one was looking. Not stuff people had gnawed on: he wasn’t _that_ desperate. But unfinished fries, leftover milkshake, whatever.

His stomach growled now. He hadn’t eaten yet: he was trying to ration himself to one meal a day, and even then his money was fast running out. He’d only had a few dollars on him when he’d run out of Manny’s apartment, and although he’d tried just to buy cheap stuff to eat, it all cost money. Doughnuts were good, they filled you up. What he really wanted was a burger but they cost too much.

A family came into the burger bar and headed to the counter, young kids yelling and chattering as their parents followed in tow. Zoro watched them cluster beneath the illuminated menu, the kids pointing excitedly at what they wanted to have.

His stomach growled again.

 

 

“Are you done with that?” The lanky guy suddenly materialised in front of him, nodding at Zoro’s empty cup.

Zoro gave him a look. “No.”

The guy narrowed his eyes. “Sure about that?”

Zoro folded his arms. “I’m finishing my drink.”

“Right.” The guy made a scathing face, before turning away. As he departed, he threw a parting comment over his shoulder. “These tables are for paying customers.”

_Fuck you,_ Zoro mentally projected, watching him go. He noticed one of the counter staff looking over at him too, a blonde girl with a small frown on her face. With exaggerated care Zoro picked up his empty cup, stuck the straw in his mouth, and acted like he was sucking down his drink.

 

 

It wasn’t just the fact he’d been sitting here over two hours, he was pretty sure. After a week sleeping rough, he was starting to look – and smell – pretty rank. The first night had been the worst: he’d searched for a long time for somewhere out of the rain, trying doorways and alleys and finally winding up sitting in a subway where a draught blew through and left him aching and stiff. So stiff he’d almost gotten caught by a cop who’d spotted him dozing there.

Steering clear of the authorities was one thing Zoro knew he had to do. He wasn’t stupid: he knew there were homeless shelters, but he was under-age; and if he went to one someone might figure that out. Which meant social services getting involved, and he could wind up stuck in the care system somewhere shitty with no possibility of getting out again any time soon. So that ruled out sleeping in a shelter.

He could manage. It was only going to be for a few days, till he tracked down his uncle.

 

 

_If that sack of shit Manny’d answer his phone I wouldn’t have to be sleeping rough._

 

 

Zoro had tried texting Manny several more times. When he’d got no reply he’d even tried calling him, with the same lack of result. Now Zoro’s phone was almost out of charge, and with no immediate prospect of being able to recharge it he’d turned it off. He fired it up once a day, in the morning, just to see if his uncle had left a message for him. Which of course he hadn’t.

Thinking of his uncle made that familiar flare of anger kindle in the pit of Zoro’s stomach again.

_You stupid fuckwit loser._

Zoro had spent the last several days walking round in the drizzling rain to every bar, gambling joint and Japanese eatery he could remember his uncle having frequented. With exactly zero results. No-one had seen his _oji_ lately, and judging by people’s reactions, no-one was much surprised by that.

Zoro had just one more place to try, the Big Fish Bar. He’d meant to check it out yesterday but had run out of energy and daylight, trying and failing to find the bar in a part of town he didn’t really know. He’d gotten fresh directions from a guy hawking newspapers on a corner, so today he was going to follow up on them.

 

 

“Hey.” The lanky youth was suddenly back at the table. “We’ve been watching you for like an hour, and you finished your coke ages ago. It’s time for you to get going.”

Zoro looked up at him. “Or you’ll do what?”

“I’ll call the police.” The youth said this flatly.

“Fuck you. I’m not hurting anybody, I’m just sitting here.” Zoro wasn’t going to be ejected from the warm and dry without protest.

“If you’re still sitting here in one minute’s time, I’m calling the cops.” The youth shook his head, before walking away. “Your choice.”

 

 

_Fuck it._

 

 

Zoro slowly got up, his empty cup in one hand. He walked deliberately slowly between the tables towards the door, pausing to look back at the lanky guy who was now standing at the serving counter, near the blonde chick. They were both watching Zoro. He met their gaze – then lifted the hand with the cup and tightened his fist, crumpling it up. Before tossing it onto the floor and walking out.

The bitter November wind hit him before he’d gone three steps down the street, bearing thin needles of rain. It had been raining on and off the whole time he’d been sleeping rough, making his situation even more shitty than it would’ve been otherwise. His trainers were permanently damp, his jacket and hoodie kept getting soaked through. Whenever Zoro found somewhere dry and warm to hole up in – the library was the best place he’d found so far - he sought out heaters or hot air vents and stayed as close to them as he could manage until his clothes dried out a little. Of course this meant that along with the accumulated grime of sleeping rough, he was starting to smell more than a little ripe. Which made hanging out in public spaces more difficult: he’d already had a few run-ins with guardians of such spaces, like the crater-faced jerkwad in the burger joint just now.

It was after midday, and being as how it was November Zoro didn’t have many hours of daylight left. He decided to go on a quest to locate the Big Fish Bar again. Maybe this time he’d get lucky and either find his uncle, or at least someone who knew something about where he was.

 

 

 

 

 

Almost two hours later Zoro came to a halt on a sidewalk and looked at a lit-up sign in a bar window. _Big Fish Bar._

He regarded the bar door, frowning. This was the last place on his mental list, of hangouts he knew his uncle had favoured. If this one yielded nothing, he had nowhere else to go looking.

Zoro let out a heavy breath, then pushed the door open. In the dimly-lit interior, warmth with overtones of stale beer met him. A few yards from the door a bartender was wiping down his bar counter: glancing up at the sound of the door opening, he saw Zoro and scowled. “Hey, kid - we don’t serve minors. Get lost.”

 

 

Zoro looked around the space, at the few customers drinking nearby. Then he walked up to the bar, facing down the bartender’s glower. “I don’t want a drink. I’m looking for someone.”

The man hiked one eyebrow. “No shit?” He jerked one thumb towards the door. “You got three seconds to move your ass out of that door, or I’ll help you on your way.”

“I’m looking for my uncle. Kichirou Roronoa.” Zoro planted his own folded arms on the bar top, leaning forwards and meeting the bartender’s gaze.

The man narrowed his eyes. “Who did you say?”

“Kichirou Roronoa.”

 

 

The bartender straightened up. Then looked over Zoro’s shoulder, calling out to someone across the room, “Hey, Orichi. This kid knows Roronoa.”

Zoro looked round, to see a thickset Japanese man sitting at a table, reading a newspaper. He looked up. “Ah?” His eyes rested on Zoro, studying him for a moment.

“Think Kazuo’d want to talk to him?”

The man named Orichi grunted, before getting to his feet. “Let’s find out.” He walked to the rear of the bar, disappearing through another doorway. Zoro watched him go, then looked back at the bartender. “I know my uncle came here sometimes. You seen him recently? Like, in the last few days?”

The man shook his head, giving him a one-sided smile. “I ain’t seen shit, kid. I just work here.” With that he turned away to stack glasses at the rear of the bar, effectively editing Zoro out of his attention zone.

 

 

Zoro let out a heavy breath, before turning to scan the space again. It was a pretty seedy-looking place: there was even a small stage with a pole for dancers, although at this time of day there was nothing happening up there. It was warm though... And Zoro felt his body relaxing into the comfort of that. He wondered how long he could stay here without someone deciding to kick him out.

“Oi.” There was a sharp whistle from one side. Zoro looked round: the guy called Orichi was standing in the doorway that led into the bar’s recesses, gazing at him. “Kazuo says come on back.” He jerked his thumb towards the doorway behind him, summoning Zoro.

 

 

Giving the bartender a parting look, Zoro walked across the room to where Orichi stood. The stocky man stepped a little to one side, and Zoro walked through the doorway. Beyond was a short passage giving onto a narrow flight of stairs. Zoro paused at their foot, glancing back at Orichi: the man just grunted, “Go up.”

At the top of the stairs was another door, this time a heavy-duty one, reinforced and set into a steel frame. As Zoro reached it Orichi stepped up alongside him and knocked twice, looking towards a peephole set into the door’s woodwork. After a few seconds there was the clunking of a lock, and the door opened. Orichi nudged Zoro hard between the shoulder blades, pushing him forwards.

As they came into the room Zoro paused to look around, and received another shove in his back. He would have turned to glare at Orichi, but for the fact that there were other people in the room that got his attention. Three more Japanese: two guys with close-cropped hair, leaning against the walls to either side, in attitudes of slouched readiness; and a third man sitting at a desk. All three of them were as seriously muscled as Orichi; and the guy at the desk was shaven-headed, with a scar that bisected his right eyebrow with a slash of white.

 

 

Orichi gave Zoro one final push, towards the desk. “This is the one, Kazuo.”

The man at the desk looked at Orichi, thoughtfully. “He just wandered in?”

Orichi nodded. “Yeah. He was asking about Roronoa. Says he’s his uncle.”

Kazuo turned his gaze onto Zoro. His eyes were dark, almost black: he studied Zoro’s face as though he intended to remember it. “What’s your name?”

“Zoro.”

“And you’re looking for Kichirou Roronoa...” Kazuo leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest and regarding the youth.

“Yeah.” Zoro waited; then when nothing more seemed forthcoming, he tried to elicit more of a response. “I know he comes here sometimes. To the bar.”

Kazuo’s face gave nothing away. “So?”

“So, I’m trying to find him. Has he been here in the last few days?”

 

 

Kazuo looked to the side, meeting the gaze of one of the men propped against the wall: they exchanged half-smiles. Then Kazuo got up and walked from behind the desk to where Zoro stood next to Orichi. “What makes you think anyone here’d know shit about where your uncle is?”

Up close, Kazuo was even more solidly muscled than he had been at a distance. Zoro met that flat, dark gaze. “Because I know he used to come here sometimes.”

Kazuo let out a short breath that was almost a laugh. “Oh yeah, he was a fucking regular. Right, Orichi?”

Orichi grunted an affirmative. Zoro felt anger mounting; tried to persist without letting it show. “That’s why I’m here. To find out if anyone’s seen him around the last few days.”

 

 

Kazuo studied the youth’s face for a moment. And then the man moved so fast Zoro didn’t even see it, just felt the hand that gripped around his throat hard and shoved him backwards across the room until he hit the wall. And the hand still gripped him, Kazuo’s fingers and thumb squeezing around his windpipe until the edges of Zoro’s vision went black and he couldn’t even get the air to choke.

“Cut the bullshit.” Kazuo said this in a low growl. “You think I’m stupid, _kisama?_   Your _oji_   sent you here, right? To do this nice little bit of playacting, make us think he’s disappeared like a magic trick, _ne?”_  His fingers dug into Zoro’s throat. “He hopes we’ll just forget about what he owes us...”

Zoro barely managed to lift his own hands to where Kazuo’s grip was locked onto him: tried to prise the fingers off. It was like trying to bend iron. He could feel his legs giving way, blood beginning to thud in his ears. Staring into Kazuo’s gaze, black snaking into his vision, he tried one last attempt to slacken the other man’s grip: curled his own fingers and dug his nails hard into the back of Kazuo’s hand.

 

 

Kazuo’s eyes narrowed, but the man’s grip didn’t falter. Then unbelievably, a grim smile spread across his face. “Oi, this tiger cub has claws.” His smile turned into a dangerous grin – before he suddenly released Zoro with a downwards jerk of his hand that sent the youth sprawling onto his knees on the floor.

Air rushed back into Zoro’s lungs: he coughed, hands braced on the floor, breath coming back in aching gasps. Then two booted feet stepped in close and he almost stopped breathing again, his head tipping sharply up to look at what was coming next.

Kazuo stood over him, the grin gone. “Stand up.”

Zoro took an unsteady breath. Then, using his hand against the wall for support, got slowly to his feet. His legs felt like they would hardly hold him: his throat ached.

 

 

Kazuo folded his arms, studying him. “What’s your full name?”

“Zoro... Roronoa.” His voice came out ragged: Zoro swallowed.

Kazuo’s eyes were cold. “Kichirou’s really your _oji?”_

“Yeah.” Zoro swallowed again.

“Hhn.” Kazuo made a short noise in his throat. “Bad luck for you.”

Zoro didn’t have any argument with that. He stayed silent, hoping this was the safest option.

 

 

One of Kazuo’s fingers tapped slowly where it rested on his folded arms. Zoro saw the top of it was missing, the finger shortened at the first joint. The man regarded him consideringly. “Your uncle owes my boss a lot of money. Did you know that, _gaki?”_

Zoro had already figured that out. “Your boss and a bunch of other people.”

“I don’t give a fuck what he owes other people. But it’s part of my job to collect debts for my boss. One way or another.” Kazuo shrugged. “What makes my job harder is finding people who make themselves scarce. Like your uncle. We’d just about given up on tracking him down... Then you come walking in here.” One corner of his mouth hitched upwards. “Convenient for us.”

Zoro felt his breath almost stop. “I don’t know where he is. I told you, I’m trying to find him myself - ”

“Yeah, yeah; I heard you. What makes you think I believe that?”

“Believe it or not, it’s the truth.” Dread was squeezing Zoro’s stomach into a sour knot. “I don’t know where the fuck he is - ”

“ _Damare_.” Kazuo’s voice was hard. “Maybe your _oji_   didn’t have the balls to face the music so he sent you instead, to make us think he’d skipped town. Or maybe he’s just hiding somewhere, from you as well as from us. Bad for you, either way.”

 

 

Zoro turned his head, to look towards the door. To where Orichi and the other two men were waiting. Watching.

A hand gripped his chin: his head was turned roughly back to face Kazuo. “How much value does your _oji_   put on your skin, I wonder? Enough to make sure you keep it in one piece?”

Fury met the fear in Zoro’s gut then, exploding outwards on the adrenaline that was flooding through him. “You think I’d be trying to find him, if he gave a shit about me? He bailed on me without leaving a fucking note, I’ve been trying to find him for the last week!”

“Family’s family.” Kazuo’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe he’ll find you if we give him reason to.”

“ _Boke!”_   Zoro exclaimed. “Don’t you get it? If I was on fire my uncle wouldn’t piss on me to put it out. He’s a fucking loser - if you can’t track him down without my help then you ought to get into a new line of business!”

 

 

One of the other men let out a low grunt. “Cocky little fuck, _ne_.”

“ _Teme_...” Kazuo gave Zoro an extremely pissed-off look. “You think this is a joke?”

“No.” Sweat was sticking Zoro’s clothes to him: he could feel his heartbeat shaking him from the inside out. He swallowed, then took a breath. “You want to find my uncle: me too. How about, whoever tracks him down first, lets the other one know.”

 

 

There was a long silence. Zoro clenched his hands into fists and wondered exactly how he was going to be fucked up. Whether one of these guys had a knife, or if they were just going to beat the shit out of him until he coughed up blood on the floor.

Then Kazuo let out a heavy sigh. “ _Kuso_...” He glanced over towards the other men, then looked back at Zoro. Before an ugly grin broke across his face, and he let out a harsh laugh. “He’s got balls, this one.” He lifted one hand: patted Zoro hard on one cheek, almost a slap, making the youth blink. “ _Baka._ You think it’s smart to mouth off to people like us?”

Zoro made no reply but clenched his jaw, staring back at the man. Kazuo let out a snort. “That’s what you should’ve done from the start. Kept your mouth shut.” He stepped back, turning away and gesturing towards the door with his thumb. “Put him out.”

 

 

Orichi moved, walking up to Zoro and taking hold of the youth’s shoulder. Zoro let himself be pushed towards the door, walking on unsteady legs, not really understanding how it had happened but knowing that he was walking away. He couldn’t help looking back, to where Kazuo was sitting down behind the desk. The man’s gaze met Zoro’s just for a moment... Then turned away, as he beckoned one of the other men to come to him, evidently to give him some kind of instruction.

And then Zoro was stumbling out of the door and down the stairs, with Orichi’s hand holding his shoulder to help him along.

 

 

The stocky man propelled Zoro through the bar and out onto the street, stopping just outside the doorway to fix Zoro with a look. “Get lost.”

Zoro faced the man, shakes running through his body now it was over. He looked towards the bar doorway.

“You heard me. Walk away now. Don’t come back.” Orichi regarded him expressionlessly.

Zoro knew it was a stupid thing to ask, but he couldn’t leave without one final attempt. “What about if my uncle shows up here?”

Orichi raised one eyebrow. “He’d be the biggest fool on the planet if he did.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t show your face round here again, if you want to keep wearing it.” With that he swung round and headed back into the bar. The door clunked shut behind him, leaving Zoro standing outside in the growing twilight.

For almost a minute the youth stood there. At last he let out a breath; turned on his heel and walked away down the street.

 

 

**********

 

After his encounter at the Big Fish Bar, Zoro stopped trying to look for his uncle. Stopped doing pretty much anything, except what he had to: finding ways to scrounge food; finding spaces to hang out in the daytime that were out of the weather; finding places to sleep that were at least under a roof of some sort.

After a few weeks he got so ragged with the mind-numbing drag of looking for indoor spaces to hang out, that he even considered going back to his old school. Sneaking into the back of a class and falling asleep with his head on a desk like he used to, in blissful oblivious warmth.

But a minute’s reflection told him that this was a no-brainer. He hadn’t showed in school for weeks, it wasn’t like he could turn up now without attracting attention. And he looked like shit: he’d been living in the same clothes for so long he smelled pretty bad, too.

Food was another issue. He’d pretty much run out of money, so shoplifting had turned from an occasional pastime into a mode of survival. He’d learned to look in bins and dumpsters near restaurants and cafés, it was fucking incredible how much food got thrown out and some of it was still edible.

 

 

Sometimes Zoro saw other homeless begging for handouts, sitting on the street with a hand-lettered cardboard sign, or just standing with an upturned baseball cap in one hand, mumbling entreaties at mostly oblivious passers-by. That would have been one possible method to get money to buy some food, except it would also have been a pretty sure-fire way of getting noticed by cops or some other force of officialdom that would lead to trouble.

So Zoro didn’t try for handouts. He rifled through bins and lifted stuff from stores and market stalls; walked the streets and sat on benches and watched people walk by having actual lives. And tried to think, in ever-decreasing spirals, of some kind of plan for fixing the situation he’d wound up in.

He never got far with this. Largely because his thinking always circled the same few inescapable facts, that blocked his way like fucking tombstones.

His uncle was gone. Probably for good.

He had no fucking money left.

He was under age, so he couldn’t get help from the authorities, unless he wanted to end up in some shithole in the care system somewhere. Which left not a fuck of a lot of options. Try and get some kind of job, washing cars or delivering food or _anything_ to at least earn enough money to buy more food; but he wasn’t exactly looking like good employable material right now.

 

 

This was always the point his thinking led back to, by which time Zoro usually felt like his head was going to explode. It didn’t help that he was so fucking tired all the time. He’d always been able to sleep easily; he’d been somewhat legendary for his napping abilities amongst the kids he’d hung with at school: sleeping in lessons, during lunch, in the locker room after gym class. But now sleep had become almost as hard a commodity to find as food.

Zoro still caught naps in the daytime whenever he could. Usually slumped sitting up on benches, in public spaces. In the library when he didn’t get caught and told to leave. Sitting with his back against the wall in some quiet corner in a covered shopping mall, curled up with his head on his folded arms; oblivious of the noise of shoppers until some asshole security guard moved him on. There were quite a few places where it was possible to doze for a short while, and Zoro was getting skilful at finding them.

What was harder was finding somewhere to sleep for real, at night. It was mid-December now and fucking freezing, so crashing somewhere on the street carried the real likelihood of not waking up at all. Zoro had seen one guy that had actually happened to: one frost-bitten early morning when he’d been walking along the street before sun-up, fists doubled in his jacket pockets, walking fast to try to get warm. Wondering if he would be able to find dropped coins on the sidewalk from careless Christmas shoppers... And if he’d find enough to buy a cup of coffee or something else that would fight off the winter freeze.

 

 

Zoro had almost walked straight past the guy. He was little more than a shape huddled under a blanket, hat pulled down low, knees drawn up, wedged into a doorway. But something about him made Zoro stop.

There was a brown paper bag next to the guy, with the neck of a bottle just sticking out of it. The guy’s hand lay on top of his blanket, as if he’d just put the bottle down. But when Zoro looked at his face, there was a waxy greyness about it. The man’s eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted and bloodless: no breath steamed between them.

Zoro had stared for a full minute. He’d never seen anyone dead before.

Then he’d gotten spooked. Worried that someone would come along, see him and the dead guy, call the cops, want him to be a witness. So Zoro had walked away, as quickly as he could. Not looking back. But the dead man’s face stayed engraved in his brain.

_Merry fucking Christmas._

 

 

That had been enough to make Zoro look for other places than the street to sleep. But it wasn’t easy. There were a lot of other people in his position, and the obvious places for homeless people to seek refuge in colder weather were generally taken, generally by older guys than him who weren’t big on sharing. Zoro managed to find places he could hole up in, but they were always temporary: somewhere he could sleep a night or two, fitfully and with frequent waking up at sounds that might signal the necessity to move on.

So he was tired. Fuck, Zoro was _beyond_ tired: he felt like he was walking round in a trance half the time. It had been over a month of trying to sleep on benches, or in subways. The minute he got anywhere warm, sat down out of the wind, he started to doze.

 

 

He got so tired he made a mistake.

Benches and subways weren’t exactly safe, but not, as it turned out, as risky other choices.

 

 

It had seemed like a good idea. Zoro had slept in the bus station before, dozing sitting up on a bench. He’d also used the restrooms there to wash up, trying to make some kind of effort to wash off the worst of the street grime. It was while he was doing that early one morning that it occurred to him that the restrooms were always open, twenty-four seven. And that they were an indoor space. With lockable toilet cubicles.

The following night Zoro waited around the bus station till well after midnight. He watched till the Christmas shoppers and travellers had dispersed, before venturing into one of the restrooms. It smelled pretty bad in there but once he’d curled up in a cubicle and fastened the lock on the inside, his back against the door, it was the only the fact that it was out of the biting December wind that mattered.

 

 

Zoro quickly fell asleep despite the lack of comfort, because he’d been doing a lot of walking the streets and it was almost warm in there. So when someone began rattling the cubicle door it took him a few seconds to wake up. Which was long enough for the guy on the other side to force it open, the piece-of-shit lock and Zoro’s weight being nowhere near sufficient to hold back the determined aggressor.

The door being shoved into him sent Zoro sprawling in the cramped space. When he twisted his head round to stare upwards, blurry-eyed from being jerked from sleep, there was a very large guy standing in the doorframe looking down at him. A sour stink of alcohol and sweat hit him, rank and dangerous. The guy mumbled something hard-edged, unintelligible, urgent. Before bending down and reaching for Zoro with hands that gripped his jacket as if he was some lost possession refound.

Zoro jerked up, ripping himself free, and fell out of the cubicle. Scrambled to his feet and got exactly one step away before an arm went round his throat from behind and weight dragged him down onto the floor.

The man pinned him down, shoving Zoro’s face hard against the dank-smelling tile. The guy was probably drunk, but he was strong. Zoro had been in fights at school, on the streets, but he’d never actually fought like this before, with an adult. An adult who was clearly determined to do what he wanted to Zoro, and to use whatever means were necessary to achieve this.

 

 

Fingers clenched hard on him. Zoro kicked and twisted under the heavy weight pinning him down, flailing out with fists and elbows and fighting back with no plan or strategy, just a blind need to escape. It didn’t work and he felt his wrist gripped bruisingly tight, forced down to the floor and held there: the man using the considerable weight of his own body to pin him flat. A knee pushed roughly between his legs.

Then Zoro felt a hand shove up under his jacket: grip the waist of his jeans and yank hard, trying to haul them downwards.

 

 

_No fuck no _

 

He heard himself cry out, a wordless summoning for help. An animal noise of something trapped and fighting for escape.

And exactly no-one heard it. No-one was coming to his rescue. Because it was just the two of them struggling on the cold restroom floor, just him and this unknown assailant whose hard breath fell hot against the back of Zoro’s neck.

 

 

Some part of Zoro’s brain told him, _His face is up close behind your head._

 

 

He didn’t think: just moved, instinctively jerking his head back and up as hard as he could. Felt the back of his skull connect with something soft that gave, and felt at the same time the man pinning him jerk and let out a yelp.

The hand on his wrist reflexively let go: and Zoro brought his arm back too, putting all the force he could into a blow with his elbow that sank into the ribs of the body still lying over him. The weight on top of him shifted and he pushed at it, jerking himself out from under, scrambling across the floor.

The guy rolled away, falling onto his back. Letting out curses and a loud groaning sound, one hand going up to his bloody face.

Zoro was on his feet and springing up and past the figure on the floor before it could move again. He slammed out of the restroom door and took off through the bus station as fast as he could, out onto the streets.

 

 

He ran without seeing where he was going, just the flood of adrenaline and need to get away pushing him onwards, running so fast he was almost falling. The hard hit of tarmac under his trainers, the dark urban landscape reeling past as he kept going. Bursting out of one street and half-skidding around a corner, before running on. His breath starting to come hard and a stitch beginning to burn under his ribs and still Zoro kept going.

The mouth of an alleyway hove into view and he plunged into it like a hunted animal seeking cover. His legs carried him past rear doorways and an overflowing dumpster and into the dank space behind it. Where he stopped, one hand bracing against the wall as he fought to get his breath back.

The wall felt cold and rough under the palm of his hand: Zoro found his fingers clawing against it, holding on for support. His legs had carried him this far but now they felt as if they were going to give way. A shudder ran through him, shivering his breath out hard: as he breathed in the alley’s stink filled his nose, of garbage and piss. It smelled like the restroom here, that same toilet stench.

Zoro’s stomach clenched – then he doubled over and threw up onto the ground.

The fact that he didn’t have a whole lot in him to vomit with didn’t seem to make any difference. Once he’d brought up the coffee and stale doughnuts which was all he’d eaten that day, he still dry heaved. Retching until his eyes teared up.

When at last it stopped Zoro stayed bent over with one hand still holding onto the wall. Breathing unsteadily and spitting out the sour taste from his mouth.

 

 

There was a scrape of footsteps very close by, then a gruff voice said, “Huh... That ought to ‘bout do it.”

Zoro came upright so fast he almost hit the wall, backing up till his shoulders touched the bricks.

Standing a couple of yards away, between him and the street, was an old man peering at him through the alley’s gloom. A guy made bulky by layers of clothing, coats and scarves and a woolly cap on his head; sporting an untidy beard and carrying a bag with frayed handles.

Zoro’s eyes measured the guy, the gap between him and escape, and then looked frantically around his immediate vicinity. He spotted something that caught the dull light and shone. A discarded beer bottle, sticking out of trash lying beside the dumpster.

 

 

Without thinking Zoro bent down and snatched up the bottle, before striking its end hard against the metal dumpster’s edge. It shattered jaggedly, luckily where he wanted it to so he wasn’t left holding a fistful of glass shards – but even if it had broken wrong Zoro would still have kept hold of it. He wanted a weapon, something ugly and capable of inflicting major damage, and at this point he didn’t much care how that worked out.

_I am done being everyone’s bitch._

Lifting the broken bottle he jabbed its ragged edge towards the bearded guy. “Back off, motherfucker!”

 

 

The man’s brows twisted a little. Not in fear, but in surprise. “Eh?”

“I said back the fuck off!” The bottle in Zoro’s hand was shaking a little: but his grip on the cold glass was tight. “Else I’ll fucking cut you!”

The man looked at the bottle, then up at Zoro’s face. “All right, young ‘un.” He took two steps back, and held up his hands in a peace-making gesture. “No trouble.”

This was so unexpected that Zoro didn’t know what to do or say next. So he stood still, his hand still held out threateningly, watching the guy. Waiting for the other to make a wrong move.

 

 

The man moved a hand and Zoro tensed... But all the guy did was slowly scratch his beard, while regarding Zoro with a considering expression. Before saying in a matter-of-fact voice, “Jus’ heard someone pukin’ their guts up. Thought maybe they might need some help.”

Zoro’s eyes narrowed. “Like fuck you did.”

The man’s gaze held him. “Someone’s in trouble out here, you help ‘em. What goes around comes around, right? Next time might be my own self needs helpin’.”

After weeks of living on the street, Zoro had learned that help out here always came with a price. Had nearly paid a heavy price himself, that night. So he kept the broken bottle ready. “What, you’re the good fucking Samaritan?”

“Sometimes.” The man shrugged. “When I’m in a place to be.”

 

 

There was a short silence. At last, the man nodded towards the bottle in Zoro’s hand. “Don’t need that. I ain’t gonna trouble you.”

“Yeah – goddamn right you’re not.” Zoro bit out this retort, not lowering his improvised weapon.

The man looked at him. “Somethin’ bad happen?” His voice was quiet.

A tremor ran through Zoro’s guts. He scowled, forcing the rising sickness down with fury. “Nothing happened, asshole. I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah.” The man regarded him. “I see that.”

 

 

Zoro wanted out of this situation. Wanted out of this alley. He gestured with the bottle. “Back off - or I shove this in your face, you shitty old bastard.”

The man backed up a couple of steps, opening up an escape route. Zoro moved towards it, stepping past but keeping himself facing the guy, jagged bottle still held out.

“You gotta find yourself someplace safe,” the man said, like he was giving out free advice and Zoro actually gave a fuck.

“No shit,” Zoro spat.

“Find somewheres there’s folks your own age, if y’can. Safer’n being on your own, if you’re a young ‘un. Lotta guys out here’ll hit on kids like you.” The man scratched at his beard again. “There’s a few places round about. Buildings in the projects been boarded up, folks squat in ‘em. You try there, maybe.”

 

 

Zoro wanted to tell the old deadbeat to shut the fuck up, keep his advice to himself: except that last bit of information actually might turn out to be useful. So he said nothing.

The man nodded slightly. “Y’get a place to stay, then you can find yourself a way of makin’ some money. Panhandling ain’t difficult, but you got to pick the right spot or the cops’ll come down on you.”

“I’m not gonna beg like some fucking loser.” Zoro scowled again.

“Well, you could work maybe. Day labourin’, yard work; that kinda thing.” The man shrugged slightly. “Go stand on the corner of 69th and Marcy Avenue, trucks come by there looking for people to work. Gotta get there early though: five in the morning, thereabouts.” The faded eyes in the lined face regarded the youth. “Used ta do it my own self. Now I got too old, folks won’t hire me. They pick the strong ones.”

 

 

Somewhere not too far distant a police siren rose, its thin whine reaching them there in the alley. Zoro looked around quickly, but the siren’s moan faded back into the city night noise.

There was the scuff of movement, and his eyes flicked back to his front, fixing on the old wino. Who was shuffling on the spot a little, swapping his bag of possessions to his other hand. Letting out a grunt, before looking at Zoro again. “Well... You gonna stand there all night?”

Zoro let the clench of his fingers on the bottle’s neck loosen a little... Before he threw his improvised weapon to one side. The small sound of the glass shattering on the ground made the old wino blink. Zoro held his gaze for a second or two, before saying, “You try to follow me, I’ll break your face.”

“Heh.” The man’s features moved into a grim smile. “You might make it out here.”

Zoro backed away, still facing the man, until he was almost at the head of the alley... Then turned and headed swiftly out onto the street and away.

 

 

*******

 

_Nearly eighteen months later..._

“ _Oye, chavo._ Look smart: there’s the truck.”

The growl of the approaching vehicle made Zoro look up. Beside him the older man, Hernandez, folded away his newspaper before shoving it away in his backpack as the pick-up pulled up at the kerb. “Ey, he’s early today.”

“Beats waiting around here.” Zoro hated the waiting around at the start of the day, in the grey chill of dawn. Sometimes they waited for a couple of hours and the truck never even showed up, when there wasn’t much work. That sucked: dragging himself out of bed in the dark and getting out on the street, only to have to go back to his room a couple of hours later with nothing to show for it... And no money for breakfast.

Hernandez exchanged a handshake through the pick-up window with the driver. “Eh, Carrillo: what you got for us today?”

“How are you guys at decorating?” Carrillo leaned one elbow on the sill.

“Your lucky day: I used to be famous for it in my home town.” Hernandez grinned broadly.

“How about, you _chinito?_  Know which end of a paint roller to hold?” Carrillo looked slyly at Zoro.

“Yeah.” Zoro ignored the jibe. He needed the work.

“Okay, get in the back. We gotta go pick up materials first.”

 

 

The pick-up drove away with them in the back. They settled themselves as comfortably as they could against the cab, their legs competing for space with stepladders, paint rollers and other decorating paraphernalia. Hernandez shuffled his shoulders against the cab behind them, wincing as the pick-up took a corner, and gave Zoro a look. “Hey, don’t mind that _chinito_ crack. Carrillo didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Whatever.” Zoro didn’t much care. Carrillo was an asshole, but he was a steady source of work.

Hernandez regarded him. “You should just laugh at him. If he thinks he’s bugging you, he’ll keep saying it.”

Zoro shrugged. “He can say what the fuck he likes, long as he keeps giving me work.”

Hernandez sighed. “Just because a man pays you to work, doesn’t mean he’s bought all of you. Especially _chamba_ like we do for him. You don’t have to take shit from people.”

 

 

“I don’t take shit from anyone.” Zoro gave him a sidelong look.

“Yeah, so I see.” Hernandez gestured with his thumb at the dark bruise that ran along Zoro’s cheekbone. “Been in another fight?”

“Uh huh. Beat the fucker too.” Zoro grinned.

Hernandez shook his head. “ _Chale..._ You should be careful.”

“Shithead was trying to steal my stuff. I got back late Saturday night and he was trying to bust into my place, he’d was jacking the padlock when I caught him.”

“He get away with anything?”

“No. I’m careful where I stash my money. Anyway, he was looking for drugs, so he was shit out of luck: I smoked the last of my weed a week ago.”

 

 

The older man gave a slight shake of his head. “That place you live is a bad one. You should try to find somewhere else to stay.”

“It’s okay.” Zoro shrugged. “Don’t have to pay rent. And I can handle assholes like that.”

“Eh, maybe... But all kinds of _chingones_ live in that block. Shootings and fights, gang stuff. If I were you, I’d look for another place.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ve got my eye on this sweet penthouse uptown,” Zoro replied mockingly. “Soon as I’ve got the deposit saved up, I’m in there.”

“ _Menso_.” Hernandez chuckled. “Okay, I’m through giving you bad advice. I’m gonna rest my eyes. Wake me up when we get there.” With that the older man pulled his baseball cap down over his eyes and folded his arms across his chest.

 

 

Zoro let his own head rest back against the cab. Watched the streets reel by. The sun was up now and it looked like it was going to be good day. Not that it mattered, because by the sound of it Carrillo was gonna have them working indoors anyway.

Zoro had been day labouring for nearly sixteen months now, and living in a squat in the projects a little longer than that. Since he’d gotten the advice from that nameless wino in the alley, way back the winter before last, he’d learned quickly. Found his way to the various apartment blocks in the projects with squatted spaces that people with nowhere else to go gravitated towards.

It had taken a while to find an empty apartment that was still habitable – some of them were totally trashed, burned out or open to the weather. Once Zoro had figured out which one looked the best bet, he got a foot in the door. Literally: he’d had to kick down nailed-up boards to access the space he now lived in, which was basically a single room and bathroom in a block of other abandoned project housing spaces: some squatted like his, some still boarded up.

There was power, via a cable hooked up illegally to a nearby mains supply that someone had tapped into for the benefit of anyone wanting to try their luck at living in the building. Zoro had a kettle and a hotplate for basic cooking. The toilet and cold water tap worked so he could wash the sleep out of his eyes in the mornings: for more than that it was pretty easy to use the showers at the local public pool.

He’d reinforced the door with scrounged timber soon after settling in and fitted bolts on the inside and a heavy padlock on the outside. It kept most people out... Except the truly determined, which included drug seekers like the asshole he’d had to deal with over the weekend.

 

 

Since getting assaulted in the bus station restroom Zoro had determined that no-one was ever getting the drop on him again. He kept a baseball bat by his bed, that he’d found tossed out with the garbage on one of the gardening jobs he’d worked for Carrillo. Zoro had never backed off from fights, even before: now he took no shit from anyone. Like he’d told Hernandez.

The day labouring meant he was able to eat at least a couple of square meals a day, and the physical work meant he’d gotten stronger too. Zoro rarely let himself think back to how he’d been almost a year and a half ago: cold, hungry, scavenging on the streets. Totally fucking clueless. Thinking about how it had felt in those first few weeks after his uncle had disappeared still made his guts clench. It had been pure fucking luck he’d made it.

 

 

Now he had a place to sleep that was dry, and relatively secure. Most weeks he had some kind of work, which meant enough money to buy food and a few beers and even score some grass every now and then. Getting buzzed helped, when things felt shitty.

Some nights though, Zoro woke up and just lay there in the dark. Listening to the night-time soundtrack of muted music, people shouting or screaming, passing cars, a bottle smashing on the street. And wondered what the fuck he was going to do if this was his life from hereon in.

 

 

The truck stopped at a DIY store where they loaded up with paint and thinners and other supplies, before heading to the job location.

When they pulled up in front of large building with the words COMMUNITY CENTRE, Zoro suddenly recognised the neighbourhood. “The fuck. This is near where I used to live.”

“Yeah?” Hernandez looked around. “Home sweet home, ey?”

“Right.” Zoro picked up a couple of cans of paint.

 

 

Carrillo led them inside the building, where he checked in at the office before leading the way down a corridor. They passed several rooms, some of which appeared to be in use: Zoro also got a glimpse of what looked like a basketball court or sports hall, through double doors with round windows set in them.

“Okay.” Carrillo pushed open a room door, and they went inside. Setting down paint and rollers and all the other shit they’d been carrying, they looked around. Carrillo gestured at the walls. “We’re repainting this room, and four others along this corridor. Ceilings, walls, baseboards, all of it. We’ll do one room at a time; finish it before we move onto the next. They told me they need the job finished by the end of the week.” He moved to the door. “I’ll go bring the rest of the stuff. You start prepping the surfaces in here.”

 

 

The door clunked shut behind their boss. Hernandez and Zoro exchanged looks.

“ _Fuck_ me.” Zoro let out a breath, looking round the room. “ _Five_ rooms? He wants us to finish one _every day?”_

“ _Órale_.” Hernandez bent over and picked up some sandpaper. “Sooner we get started, sooner we’ll finish.”

 

 

Prepping the room was dusty, monotonous work that took them till mid-morning, when they were able to start painting. The paint fumes hit the back of their throats, so they propped open both the window and the door. Sounds filtered in from the community centre beyond, from the various people using it. Snatches of conversation; shouts; a thrum of bass beat from music somewhere.

They got the room finished by early evening, packed up their stuff and carried it back to the pick-up. It was near seven o’clock when Carrillo dropped them back at the corner; by the time Zoro had walked back to his squat, washed the dust and paint flecks off his face and made some instant noodles it was after eight o’clock. He ate them sitting on an old sagging armchair (scavenged off the street when he’d moved in), looking out his window at the darkening evening sky and chugging back a beer.

It was early, but Zoro was tired. He’d drawn the short straw of painting the ceiling and his neck and shoulders ached from working with his arms over his head for hours at a stretch.

_Four more fucking rooms._

It was a shit job, but at least it was a whole week of guaranteed work.

 

 

Zoro finished his beer, and got another. If he’d had any weed left he would’ve had a toke, but beer would have to do for the time being. Taking his noodle bowl to the sink he sluiced it out, then laid down on the mattress raised up on pallets that was his bed. Drank a second beer lying there, not even bothering to put on the light as it got dark outside.

It was a warm enough evening that he’d opened the window a little, and as ever the sounds of the street came in with the moving air.

_Wonder if Masuru has got any good shit right now?_

Working a full five days this week was a bonus. It meant Zoro could splurge a little. There were a few dealers in this block, but Masuru was the guy Zoro most often bought off. His weed was usually pretty good, strong enough that you got a decent buzz off it. He was kind of an asshole, but that didn’t matter. Sometimes he tried to start up a conversation with Zoro, about the thrills of being a dealer and how he was getting in with the real players in the neighbourhood... At which point Zoro always tuned him out. Masuru was a small-time street dealer, who had about as much chance of becoming a real player as Zoro did of running for president. You didn’t see those guys, the ones a level up from the street sales, around much. And if you did you looked the other way. The world they moved in was bad news.

 

 

Zoro could still recall his brush with that world, at the Big Fish Bar. Being pinned up against the wall with that bastard’s hand round his throat. Thinking maybe he was going to die in that room.

Kazuo’s flat black eyes had stayed with him for a while. The white scar through his eyebrow: the low threat in his voice. Zoro had half expected some fallout from that encounter, or maybe a follow-up on his uncle’s debt, so he’d stayed wary. Avoided his uncle’s former hangouts. Kept his head down whenever he saw any guys who looked like they might be part of that scene. He didn’t know who Kazuo’s boss was, and he didn’t want to know. Whether or not the guy was actual yakuza was a moot point. He was trouble, and that was something Zoro tried to avoid.

 

 

His beer was finished. He upended it, letting the last drops run into his mouth, then dropped the empty bottle onto the floor with a clunk. Folded his arms under his head and tried to forget it was only Monday, before shutting his eyes. Let the sounds of the street carry him into sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

It was the end of the week and Zoro and Hernandez were trying to finish painting the final room at the community centre. The last day had been shitty from the start: Carrillo’s pick-up had gotten a flat and he’d picked them up late, bitching at them as if it was their fault. Then there’d been some issue with some of the paintwork in the room they’d done the day before, so Zoro was left on his own at first to prep surfaces while Hernandez and Carrillo went back to the previous room. Most annoyingly, this final room was the biggest, so it took longer than any of the others to finish. It close to seven-thirty before they were able to pack away their gear and start to clean up.

“I’ll get the office supervisor to check this room and sign off on the job,” Carrillo stated. “You two finish carrying the rest of this stuff out to the pick-up.”

 

 

“Eh, the blessed end of the week.” Hernandez groaned quietly as he gathered up assorted trays and rollers. “I’m gonna sleep till noon tomorrow. You okay to bring that ladder?”

“Yeah.” Zoro let the older man go first, carrying the decorating gear; then tucked dustsheets under one arm before picking up the stepladder with the other and heading out into the corridor.

 

 

As he passed the double doors that led into the centre’s sports hall he heard weird noises, like someone yelling; followed by a crashing sound. Zoro paused, lowering the stepladder to rest on the floor, before looking in through one of the round windows in the doors.

There were people dressed in dark outfits in there: facing off in pairs, each swinging a blunt-tipped bamboo sword. Zoro recognised it straight away, although he’d only ever seen it on TV before. A kendo class, with students sparring together. The noise came from them shouting, and from the clack of bamboo against bamboo, as well as the thump of bare feet against the wooden floor of the sports hall they were practicing in.

Zoro watched them, his attention focussing in on the sparring kendōka. Some of them were really moving. He found his eyes following the way they stepped in, bringing up their bamboo weapons to attack, to block. The speed and the precision of it.

_That is pretty fucking cool._

 

 

He lost track of how long he was watching. Until a girl’s voice targeted him from behind.

“Hey. You’re in the way.” The words had an impatient edge.

Zoro turned around. A teenage Japanese girl as tall as himself, her face set in a frown, was standing just behind him. She was wearing a kendo uniform and carrying a bamboo sword. She gestured at the stepladder lying in front of him. “You’re blocking up the doorway.”

“It’s a free country.” Zoro didn’t like being told off, and definitely not by some snotty little kendo princess with a bug up her ass.

The girl snorted. “Meaning everyone can act like an idiot if they feel like it?” She nodded at the ladder. “Someone could trip over that and break their neck. You better move it.”

 

 

Being given orders was another thing Zoro didn’t respond well to. “You carrying out a safety survey?”

“No, I’m trying to get back into kendo class. But some moron’s standing in my way.”

Zoro was thinking of a suitable comeback, when one of the gym doors beside them opened inwards, revealing a tall Japanese man with long hair pulled back and tied at the back of his head, also wearing kendo gear. “Kuina? Getting a drink of water shouldn’t take you this long.”

“I was just coming, _otōsan_.” The girl gave Zoro a glare. “As soon as this guy gets out of the way.”

“Ah?” The man looked at Zoro and smiled. “You’ve been hard at work.”

 

 

Zoro was suddenly extremely conscious of the fact that he was covered in dust and splashes of paint. “Uh... Yeah.” He bent down and hefted the stepladder under his arm again. “I’ll get this out the way.” As soon as it was moved the girl marched past him with an irritated look, nodding at her father and disappearing inside the hall.

Zoro started to step aside from the doorway, but as he did so the man spoke again. “Wait. Do you work here?”

Zoro set the ladder down again before turning around. “... Just this week.” He gestured with a slight jerk of his head down the corridor. “We’ve been painting some of the rooms here. We finished up today.”

“But you live locally, in this neighbourhood?”

“I used to.” Zoro answered without thinking. Then he frowned. He didn’t usually tell people anything more than he needed to, as a rule. This guy had caught him off guard.

 

 

The man seemed not to notice the frown. “You were watching. Through the door.” He nodded at the round window. “You are a kendōka?”

“No.” Zoro shook his head. “I was just looking.”

“But you practice martial arts?” The man gave him another smile, before making a small gesture at Zoro’s face. Zoro realised suddenly that the man had noticed the bruise on his cheek, which had by that point reached the colourful stage. He felt suddenly self conscious.

“No. I don’t do martial arts. I just live in crappy neighbourhood,” he replied shortly, bending down to pick up the ladder again.

“Apologies.” The man looked sober, his gaze meeting Zoro’s. “My mistake. Have you ever thought of trying your hand at something like this?”

 

 

Zoro looked at the sports hall doors, at the sparring kendōka just visible beyond... Then back at the man. “You mean kendo?” It was bizarre question. Kendo was for kids from well-heeled suburbs, whose parents ferried them to classes in shiny Lexus cars. It was a sport that required a boatload of gear and a price tag to match.

“Yes,” said the man. “I recently started running classes here. There’s still space. If you’re interested, you could come along and try it out.” He paused, then added, “There is equipment we loan to new students. You wouldn’t have to buy your own shinai and bōgu until you decided to attend regularly.”

 

 

Being recognised as a charity case did nothing for Zoro’s ego. He almost made a short refusal and turned away.

Except. The guy was watching him with a look that was nothing like condescending pity. His expression was open, and encouraging, and slightly expectant.

Zoro also felt the stir of something that felt just a bit like... a challenge.

 

 

He looked at the sports hall entrance again, then back to the man. “How much?”

The man’s head lifted, slightly. He didn’t smile, but his eyes lightened slightly. “Students pay five dollars to attend, once a week.”

Zoro pursed his lips. Then assented. “...Fine.”

The man nodded. “Seven o’clock, every Friday evening. Be here early your first time, so we can fit you out with bōgu.”

“Okay.” Zoro shrugged. “What do I wear? Like, sweatpants and a t-shirt?”

The man did smile, this time. “We have spare keikogi and hakama too.”

“Right.” Zoro figured he might as well borrow the full set, if the guy was offering to lend them for free.

“My name is Koshiro.” The man gestured at the door. “I teach kendo classes here, and also at my dojo on the edge of town.”

“I’m Zoro.” Zoro decided that an exchange of civilities was probably in order. “Uh... _Dōmu arigato_.”

“ _Dō itashimashite_.” Koshiro gave him a parting smile. “I must go. My students are waiting. See you next Friday, Zoro.” 

 

************

 

 

By the time next Friday rolled around, Zoro was in two minds about returning to the kendo class. He’d been working hard all week, Carrillo having picked up a big yardwork job fixing up the grounds of a hotel on the outskirts of the city. By the time he got back to his room late on Friday afternoon Zoro was sweaty and dirty, and not particularly motivated to go spend a couple of hours potentially getting busted over the head with a bamboo sword.

But the memory of Koshiro speaking with him kept coming into his mind. The man’s quiet but direct manner: the way he’d invited Zoro to try out at kendo, almost politely insistent. Plus the image of the kendōka sparring together, the flash and intensity of what Zoro had seen through the doorway, still drew him.

 

 

So he sluiced off the worst off the soil and grass stains, changed out of his dirty work clothes into some jeans and a faded but still presentable sweatshirt, and set off across town.

Walking back through his old neighbourhood felt weird. He half expected to see kids from his old school, and mentally rehearsed what he was going to say if anyone recognised him and asked him about where he’d gone.

_My uncle got a job across town. We moved to an apartment nearer to where he works._

He definitely didn’t want anyone finding out his actual situation. Just in case: you never knew if some busybody would stick their do-gooding nose in, get officialdom involved. The last thing Zoro wanted was to be on the radar of social services, or anyone else for that matter.

 

 

It was just after six-thirty when he reached the community centre. Although Koshiro had told him to get there early, maybe this was too early: Zoro lurked outside indecisively by the entrance for a few minutes, chewing his lip and wondering if this was really a good idea.

“Have you got a thing about blocking up doorways, or something?” A familiar voice sounded from just behind him.

Zoro turned around. The girl he’d seen the week before was standing there with a sour look on her face, holding her kendo bag on her shoulder. She was dressed in jeans and a dark blue hoodie, and one foot was tapping impatiently.

 

 

Zoro felt his hackles spring up. “You think you own this place?”

One of her eyebrows hiked up. “Like I’d want to. This neighbourhood is a fucking dump.”

“Yeah, well - feel free to go elsewhere.”

The girl narrowed her eyes. “I’d love to. But I have a kendo class to go to.”

“Me too.” Zoro met her frown with a matching one.

“You do kendo?” She looked dubious.

“Yeah.” Zoro folded his arms across his chest. “Your old man invited me to come along to a session.”

 

 

Her dubious expression changed into a grimace. “Hah. You ever done it before?”

“No. So what?”

She regarded him with the air of someone sizing up potential prey. “Good luck.”

“Kuina?” Another voice reached them: Zoro turned, to see Koshiro approaching them. The sensei smiled as he reached the pair. “Ah, and Zoro?” The man gestured towards the girl. “This is my daughter, Kuina. Kuina, this is Zoro. He’s going to join us this evening, and see if kendo is something he would like to take up.”

 

 

This was a way bigger assumption than Zoro felt Koshiro was entitled to make, but he didn’t see any point in contradicting him. “Uh, yeah.”

“Kuina will show you where the changing rooms are. Kuina: help Zoro find a spare keikogi and hakama that fit him, and bōgu. And ask Hiroshi to show Zoro how to put them on, when he arrives.”

“Yes, _otōsan_.” Kuina nodded at her father, who smiled at them both before walking past into the building. As soon as Koshiro was out of sight, Kuina let out an aggrieved sigh. “C’mon. I’ll see what I can find.” She turned on her heel and followed after her father. Zoro said nothing, as he brought up the rear.

 

 

Being fitted out with the dark blue kendo clothing was weird enough: the loose top and trousers made Zoro feel self conscious as soon as he’d put them on. But that was nothing compared to the rigmarole of putting on the bōgu, even with patient and friendly instruction from Hiroshi, the kendōka that Koshiro had assigned to supervise the newbie.

Every part of the protective body armour had to be put on in exactly the right way, in exactly the right sequence. And taken _off_   the right way, in exactly the right sequence, Hiroshi also explained. And not just put down anyhow, but in a neatly ordered formation that Zoro found as pointless as it was hard to remember. Even the bamboo sword – or shinai, as Hiroshi told him it should be called – had to be held and carried in a particular way.

“Oh: and you should never step over someone’s shinai when it’s laid on the floor.” Hiroshi added this to his seemingly endless list of do’s and don’t’s.

“Why?” Zoro asked bluntly. Getting a little tired of all he was being expected to remember.

“It’s considered very disrespectful. A big no-no.” Hiroshi shook his head.

“Okay. I’ll walk round it.” Zoro was starting to regret having showed up for the kendo class at all. So far it seemed to be long on talk and short on action. Around them, other kendo students had been arriving and changing into their own gear, greeting each other, and heading out to the hall. “Is it time to start practice yet?”

Hiroshi glanced up at the clock on the locker room wall. “Yes – we better go through.”

 

 

They walked along the corridor from the locker room, then into the sports hall. A couple of paces in, Hiroshi stopped and said, _“Shitsurei shimasu.”_   He then bowed forward slightly. Zoro did the same, feeling slightly awkward.

The formality continued: instead of getting straight into practice, the first thing they all had to do was kneel in mokuso and meditate for what seemed to Zoro like an endless time. When the class finally stood up, there was a twenty-minute warm-up. After which Zoro was further irritated to discover that before he got anywhere near wielding a shinai against an opponent, he was expected to go through a shitload of other mind-numbingly tedious stuff.

 

 

“Learning to _walk_ correctly?” He regarded Hiroshi with a frown. “You’re shitting me.”

“Good footwork is crucial.” Hiroshi nodded.

“I can walk fine. I’ve been doing it for years,” Zoro pointed out.

Hiroshi laughed. “Now you learn how to do it properly.”

“And then I get to use a shinai?”

“First you have to learn tenouchi: correct grip. Then correct cutting action and blocking. You’ll do mitorigeiko a lot.”

“ ‘Looking practice’ ?” Zoro didn’t like the sound of this either. “You mean I just sit and watch? When do I get to actually go up against someone?”

“When sensei thinks you’ve mastered the basics, you’ll be able to take part in jigeiko. Until then you’ll be working with me, or with someone else teaching you technique.” Hiroshi gave him a grin. “Don’t worry. We’ve all been where you’re at. If you get on okay, you’ll probably be allowed to start taking part in sparring after seven or eight weeks.”

 

 

_Eight weeks? Fuck that._

Zoro determined there and then that he was going to get this stuff down as quickly as possible. He wasn’t going to spend two months learning how to walk and hold a bamboo stick, for fucksake.

_Shinai,_ his brain corrected automatically.

“Whatever.” He let out a breath. “Talk me through that stuff you said about which foot I put my weight on, again.”

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

Five weeks later, Zoro was still going to the class. Still endlessly practicing. And still concentrating hard on everything Hiroshi and the other kendōka showed him, in a way he’d never concentrated on anything in school. Half of the thousand and one things you had to remember still seemed pointless – especially reiho, all the formal kendo etiquette - but by dint of endless repetition things started to feel more natural.

Halfway through his sixth session, when Hiroshi was getting Zoro to practice cutting action and blocking, he became aware of Koshiro standing nearby watching them. Zoro almost lost focus for a second, his footwork faltering; then he caught himself, bringing his focus back. Determined to show Koshiro that he knew what he was doing.

The practice moves between the two kendōka continued for a couple of minutes. At last Koshiro spoke. “ _Yame_.”

 

 

They both stopped; drew apart. Zoro remembered to finish properly and brought his shinai back to his left hip. Stood and waited.

Koshiro nodded at him. “Your kirikaeshi  is good. You’ve learned quickly.”

Zoro felt a little glow of satisfaction at that. “Thank you, sensei.”

“You may join jigeiko, next time.”

“Yes, sensei.” Zoro remembered to bow, though inwardly he was punching the air.

Koshiro smiled, before walking away to observe another pair of kendōka. Hiroshi stepped up to Zoro’s side. “He’s right. You’re picking all this up fast.”

Zoro turned back to him. “Good.”

 

 

 

 

 

From then on, kendo class became the high point of Zoro’s week. If he got day labouring work on a Friday, he always made sure he could get back to his place to dump his dirty work clothes, chug back a drink and some food if he had time, and hurry over to the community centre where he would throw himself into practice.

There was still a lot to learn. Every week he thought he’d just got his head around one thing, then he got shown something else. A new blocking technique; a different way of delivering a cutting attack to one of the target areas; a correction to his footwork, or to his stance.

Practicing one-on-one with other kendōka was the best part. Although he was the newest student there, within two months Zoro was already catching up to people who’d been doing kendo for longer than him. In jigeiko he started to take on some of the more experienced kendōka, instead of just being stuck with sparring with other newbies.

One kendōka he was itching to get a chance to square up against was Kuina. During jigeiko she always managed to keep her distance, much as she did if he ever saw her around before or after class.

Being the sensei’s daughter didn’t seem to earn her any special treatment. Koshiro never appeared to cut her any slack: if anything, when observing or instructing Kuina he appeared to expect more of her than his other students. Not that Kuina seemed to mind. She went at her kendo with a single-minded focus that evidently paid off. Whenever he watched her in action, Zoro couldn’t deny that she was really damn good.

 

 

When he finally got a chance to go up against Kuina, it came out of the blue. During jigeiko one evening, in those few seconds where people were turning to other kendōka to pair up with, he saw her unexpectedly nearby. Kuina was holding up her shinai, carefully inspecting the cords on it. She didn’t notice Zoro walk up until he was standing in front of her. Her shoulders stiffened, and for a moment Zoro thought she was going to turn away. But instead she turned to face him fully.

They eyed each other for a moment. Then without saying anything, Kuina stepped a little aside, into a clear space where they would have room to spar. Breaking eye contact they both bowed, then straightened up, with the formal shout. “ _Onegai shimasu_.”

_Game on._

 

 

Kuina came out of sonkyo smoothly into defensive position, the tip of her shinai steady. Zoro faced off too, his eyes on her: watching her stance, her slight shifting of weight on the ball of one foot, the tiniest movement of her shinai.

Their weapons touched lightly; shifted apart; touched again. Then Kuina went from being poised, into a strike at the speed of light. Zoro moved too but it felt like he was still in mid-action when Kuina’s shinai drove at his men as she let out an ear-splitting kiai. Zoro had been expecting a strike to his kote from the way Kuina had started her attack, so when he realised – too late - that the strike was aimed at his men instead, he reacted instinctively: dropping his chin towards his chest in a defensive duck.

As a protective gesture it was spectacularly ineffective. Zoro felt the shinai blow thwack against the top of his head a lot harder than he’d been hit by anyone so far, making his teeth clack together. He actually staggered back a few feet, nearly dropping his shinai. In front of him Kuina also stepped back, lowering her own weapon.

 

 

Zoro blinked to try to clear the sparkling stars from his vision. “...Fuck...” He shook his head, which was a bad move: the world went a little unsteady for a minute. When things levelled up, Koshiro was standing next to him. “Zoro. Are you all right?”

“...I’m okay.” Zoro blinked again, and found his hand reaching up to the top of his head. Which was pretty pointless, because with wearing the thick padded kote there wasn’t much chance of him feeling whether or not his head had been split open, like it felt it had.

“Sit out for ten minutes.” Koshiro’s tone made it clear this wasn’t a suggestion but an instruction. “Kuina?”

“He ducked.” Kuina’s response made it clear she knew her father was implying that she had been too heavy-handed. And that she thought that Zoro was at least halfway responsible for his own predicament.

“Be more careful next time.” Koshiro gestured at her. “Continue jigeiko.”

 

 

Kuina walked away, saying nothing more. Koshiro looked back at Zoro. “Can you bend your head forward? Turn it side to side... slowly.” His hand rested on Zoro’s shoulder, steadying him. “Does your head hurt?”

“...Yeah.” It really did. Zoro had taken men strikes before from other kendōka, but nothing that had hurt like that one.

“The way you received Kuina’s strike.” Koshiro spoke in non-judgemental tones. “You ducked your head. Yes?”

Zoro let out a slow breath. “Yeah... I ducked.”

“A valuable lesson: never duck.” Koshiro gave him a small smile. “The shinai strikes the top of your men, flexes round and hits where your men does not give you as much protection. You understand?”

“Yes, sensei...” Zoro understood all right. And having taken this hit he wasn’t going to forget it in a hurry.

“Best way to get concussion. Wrap-around blow.” Koshiro slapped his curled hand against his fist to reinforce the point. “Next time, you keep your head up. Now, you should sit out for a while. You can rejoin practice when you feel steady.”

 

 

Zoro still had a headache as he left the community centre after class. Stepping out onto the street he almost walked into Kuina, who was standing close to the centre entrance. Zoro sidestepped just in time, saw who it was and scowled: half expecting a lecture on his propensity for blocking up doorways.

Instead Kuina just stood there, her hands rammed down in the pockets of her gym hoodie, and gave him a look. “How’s the head?”

Zoro doubted she actually cared. “Fine.”

Kuina looked away, then back at him. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. If you hadn’t ducked you’d have been okay.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Zoro had had enough lessons for one day.

“Seriously,” Kuina persisted. “In kendo, if you back off you’re asking to get stomped.”

 

 

This was beyond annoying. “I wasn’t backing off.” Zoro gave her a pissed look.

“Yeah, you were. Your footwork was all wrong,” Kuina insisted. “That’s why you weren’t ready when I attacked you.”

“I was ready. And I’ll be ready next week.” Zoro folded his arms.

“You should pick someone else for jigeiko. Someone more your level.”

“Who died and made you queen of the dojo?” Zoro retorted. “We’re allowed to choose who we want, to spar with. Unless,” he added, as an inspired afterthought, “you’re just scared someone’s going to kick your ass and take your crown away.”

Kuina’s eyes narrowed. “Big talk from a guy who can’t even see a men strike coming straight at him.”

“I’ll land one on _you_ next time.”

“In your dreams, _aho_.”

 

 

They were almost nose to nose by this point. How things might have escalated further had Koshiro not walked out of the doorway behind them, was an unknown. As soon as she saw her father appear, Kuina drew back, her face smoothing down into composure. Zoro unfolded his arms quickly, wiping the scowl off his face and glancing up at his sensei.

“Zoro.” Koshiro didn’t seem to have noticed their spat. “Are you going home? How’s your head now?”

“It’s fine, sensei.” Zoro decided it was time to make an exit.

“We can give you ride, if you like.” Koshiro gestured to his car, which was parked out front on the street.

“No – thank you, sensei. It’s not far. I’m okay to walk.”

Koshiro nodded. “Well. See you next Friday.”

“Yes, sensei. Goodbye.” Making sure that he avoided any further eye contact with Kuina, Zoro turned on his heel and walked away.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:- Hope the Spanish and Japanese words here and there don't get in the way of the story. It's just how I hear the characters speaking in my head, so I wrote their dialogue as I heard it.
> 
> Spanish:  
> menso = Idiot  
> no seas cabeza hueca = blockhead (literally 'empty head')  
> pendejo = asshole (literally 'pubic hair')  
> cabrón = bastard  
> oye, chavo = hey, kid  
> chinito = rude way to address an Asian person (synonymous with 'chink')  
> chamba = shitwork, dirty crappy jobs  
> chale = damn  
> chingones = badass types  
> órale = okay
> 
>    
> Japanese:  
> oji = uncle  
> kisama = bastard / scum  
> gaki = punk, brat  
> damare = shut the fuck up  
> boke = clueless  
> teme = motherfucker (literally 'you', but very rudely)  
> kuso = shit  
> baka = retard / moron  
> otōsan = father / dad  
> dōmu arigato = thank you very much  
> dō itashimashite = you're welcome  
> shitsurei shimasu = said when entering a room (formal way to say 'please excuse me')  
> kirikaeshi = cutting and receiving kendo strikes  
> onegai shimasu = please (formal way of requesting a favour)  
> aho = fuckwit / dumbass
> 
>  
> 
> Writer's notes:  
> This chapter is where the fic dives off into Zoro's backstory, and it will stay in backstory for the next few chapters... Then return to the here and now (and Sanji) in later chapters.
> 
>  Hope no-one is majorly disturbed by the bad shit in this chapter that happens to Zoro... But being homeless or living rough is a horrendous experience, especially for young people. Official statistics show that over 60% of homeless teens have been raped or sexually assaulted; the real figure is probably higher. And although in this fic being gay isn't the reason Zoro winds up living rough, a disproportionate amount of homeless teens are LGBT.
> 
>  
> 
> On another (more personal) note: thank you so much, to all of you who've expressed messages of support. I really appreciate it. There's a lot of sadness in my life right now, but I'm doing a lot for my family which helps. <3


	4. This World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guy bent down and grabbed the front of Zoro’s t-shirt, wrenching the youth up to his feet so quickly the material ripped. “You’re dead, you piece of shit.”
> 
> Zoro knew his chances of getting out of this were exactly zero. So he had nothing left to lose. “...Kiss my ass, yarou.”
> 
> The guy’s hand smacked against the aching side of his head, fingers clenching into Zoro’s hair and jerking his head backwards.
> 
> “Oi... Hold up.” Another voice sounded.
> 
> Zoro felt the grip on his hair release. His head fell forward and he caught an unsteady breath.
> 
> A man became visible, as the group opened up to let him step through. “Hah... I know this one.” A white scar cutting one eyebrow in two. Flat black eyes, that curved up in amusement. “Long time no see, Roronoa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:  
> Graphic violence and drug use.

 

* * *

  


_This world rejects me_  
_This world threw me away_  
_This world never gave me a chance_  
_This world's gonna have to pay_

_\- Nine Inch Nails_

 

* * *

 

 

The summer that year Zoro started kendo class was relentlessly hot. In the sticky early August evenings Zoro often abandoned his room to hang out on the streets, smoking on a street corner or back lot with a random collection of other guys from his neighbourhood. Or alternatively would lie on his bed wearing as little as possible, reading through the kendo book he was studying in his continuing determination to improve his skills as quickly as he could.

He’d looked for kendo books first in the public library, which unsurprisingly had nothing. The next time he’d gone to kendo practice, he’d sought Koshiro out at the end of the session. “Uh, sensei. I got a question.”

“Yes?” Koshiro had looked at him.

“I want to try getting a book from the library about kendo. Is there a good one to ask for?”

Koshiro smiled. “Hiroshi Ozawa. _Kendo: The Definitive Guide._ That’s your best starting point.”

“Thanks.”

“But you needn’t search for it in the library. I’ve a spare copy you may borrow.” Koshiro smiled at him.

“Uh. Okay.” Zoro was surprised that his sensei was willing to lend out his books.

He was even more surprised when Koshiro gave him the book the following week: it was a hardcover, in mint condition and expensive-looking... But Koshiro appeared to be only too happy to lend it to him. His sensei handed the book over with a nod. “Take your time reading. It’s a well-written guide. There’s no great hurry for you to return it.”

 

 

Zoro had never borrowed a book from someone before. In actual fact, he’d never remotely _wanted_ to read a book badly enough that he’d felt the need to borrow one. The kind of books the teachers at school had kept foisting on them had never interested him: writing book reports had been one in a long line of schoolwork assignments that Zoro had regularly flunked.

But this book was actually interesting - if you liked kendo, if course. It had simple chapter headings; black and white line drawings that showed what the text was explaining. Zoro read sections of it over and over, especially after Koshiro had suggested he should attempt his ikkyu grading exam in three months’ time.

Like most things in kendo, the grading system was complicated. For beginners there were six kyu grades, of which ikkyu was the highest. The lower grades were mainly aimed at kids: when Koshiro had asked Zoro his age, he’d told his sensei that he’d be eighteen in November, and Koshiro hadn’t queried it. So ikkyu was the grade Zoro was going for; and three months after that he could try for first dan, if Koshiro thought he was ready. Shodan was what Zoro was setting his sights on, after hearing some of the other kendōka talk about it: it was the point at which you reputedly became a serious kendōka.

 

 

Kendo was becoming pretty much all he thought about, when he wasn’t sleeping or working. The week spent in back-breaking or monotonous labouring jobs was just a background: Zoro kept his sights on those two hours every Friday evening in the sports hall.

He was getting better every week. He was holding his own in jigeiko, against more experienced kendōka. In defiance of Kuina after she’d made him see stars, he’d sought her out the following week and they’d sparred again. And she’d won, again. This time Zoro didn’t back off and took the strike the way he ought to, the bamboo of her shinai rattling off his body armour this time. As they both stepped back and lifted the tips of their shinai back up to touch, he thought he saw her smirk through her men grille. He gritted his teeth.

_I am gonna kick your ass._

So far it hadn’t happened. But that didn’t stop Zoro trying, on a weekly basis.

 

 

So kendo was mostly a cool thing. He liked doing it, he was getting good at it, and he was going to get even better. But the only fly in the ointment was money.

Zoro had been borrowing the clothing, bōgu and shinai that Koshiro had lent him since he started coming to the classes. But once kendōka began attending regularly, it was expected that they buy their own gear... And turning up for his ikkyu exam in three months’ time in borrowed gear was definitely unacceptable. So Zoro needed to buy his own uniform, bōgu and shinai. Which was a big fucking problem.

He’d subtly dropped questions with some of the other kendōka: where was the best place to buy kit, how much did theirs cost, did anyone ever sell used kit off cheap? The answers were not encouraging. There was cheaper kit, but the consensus seemed to be it was bad to buy this, especially bōgu, because the cheaper stuff didn’t protect you properly. Used kit did come up for sale, but usually in children’s sizes as kids outgrew it. And you couldn’t buy stuff like shinai secondhand at all: shinai got used until they were broken or developed splinters, at which point they had to be thrown away.

 

 

Zoro did the math. If he bought the cheap kendo kit, he was looking at having to buy about five hundred dollars’ worth of gear, minimum. If he wanted to buy stuff that was actually worth wearing and wouldn’t need replacing in a few months’ time, more like seven or eight hundred.

When he got a day’s labouring work, he got paid about forty dollars. Right now he was lucky if he worked two days out of five: Carrillo had recently had a brother and assorted nephews move into town, so he didn’t need to take on extra workers as often as he used to. Once Zoro took food and thrift store clothes and other necessities out of eighty dollars, that didn’t leave a hell of a lot of spare change. He looked around for other work, but most places required forms to be filled in; and with no legit address, high school diploma or social security number Zoro knew there was no point in even trying.

 

 

It was a problem with no clear solution. Zoro tried his best to save a little money each week, but just living used nearly all the income he had. The only way he could economise was by trying to cut down on what he spent on food. Living mostly on peanut butter sandwiches and plain noodles sucked, big time.

At least it was summer. He’d cut down on beer but tap water was free, so on hot evenings he’d fill up a plastic bottle and go find someplace shady on the streets where he could sit and kick back, watch the world go by.

 

 

One advantage of his neighbourhood was that if you were short of means yourself to take the edge off, there were plenty of people gathered outside to escape the summer heat of the cheap buildings, drinking or smoking or both. Zoro generally managed to share a toke most evenings, with the guys who frequented the streets around where he lived.

Like this particular Saturday night. The heat had built up steadily all day, bringing a sticky humidity with it that had people semi-comatose or irritable. Zoro had propped the door of his room open, hoping to attract a through-breeze from the open window as he lay on his bed alternately reading and dozing.

By early evening he’d had enough. He’d been re-reading the _Waza (Techniques)_ chapter until his eyes ached, and the line drawings had started to blur and dance. Closing the book, Zoro got up; diverted via the bathroom to throw cold water over his head; then headed out onto the street, looking for somewhere to hang out.

 

 

The traffic on the main street filled the already thick air with fumes and noise, so Zoro beat a retreat down the first side alley he reached, heading into the maze of alleys and back lots where most of the youth of the projects generally frequented. He passed a knot of younger teenagers, hanging out round a sound system and exchanging insults and laughter with each other. Kept walking till he reached the chainlink-fenced basketball court which passed as a community space in this locality.

As he’d half-expected, Masuru was there with a few of his hangers-on, the regular small-time smokers and friends who ran together in this patch of streets. The group was sat on a couple of beat-up benches at one end of the court. A few younger kids hovered round the fringes on pushbikes, wanting to be close enough to Masuru’s crowd that they could soak up the badass vibe, but not risk getting yelled at to fuck off.

 

 

As Zoro approached Masuru saw him. “Oi, Zoro... _Dou dai?”_   He held up a hand lazily: Zoro met it with a slap. “Where you been?”

“Around.” Zoro sat on the back of the nearest bench, resting his feet on the seat.

“You missed a sweet party last night.” Masuru grinned at him. “Lotsa cute babes, real _hentai_... Shoulda been there.”

“I was busy.” The tall guy next to Zoro on the bench passed along a joint: Zoro took a hit off it, before handing it on to Masuru. “I got kendo, Friday nights.”

“Oh yeah, forgot you were doing that shit. Making like a samurai, huh?” Masuru took a lungful of smoke and held it, before expelling a bluewhite cloud. “Hey, you buying?”

“No, I’m tapped out.”

“Just come for the free samples, huh?” Masuru gave him a sly look. “Cheapskate motherfucker.”

“What can I say: I come for the witty conversation.” Zoro gave him a hard grin back.

Masuru appeared to be in a good mood: he chuckled, before handing the joint back to Zoro. “Oh yeah, my friend. You are mixing in high society now.”

 

 

Zoro didn’t really get a whole lot from listening to Masuru rambling about his latest sexual conquests or what rival dealer he’d supposedly bitch-slapped a week ago, but if that was the price of getting a free toke he could tolerate it. He let the conversation wash around him, joining in enough to ensure he got a smoke whenever a joint was circulating nearby.

It was cooler here on the court, enclosed on all sides by tall buildings so the sun never got much of a chance to reach in there and turn the tarmac into a heat store. Zoro let his arms rest across his knees; felt the buzz come on and take the edge off the sticky evening heat.

 

 

A shrill shout sounded off to one side of the court: followed by a couple of kids yelling. Masuru and everyone else looked across: Zoro saw half a dozen kids scattering on their bikes, speeding off in all directions like dead leaves blown by a sudden wind. And then he saw why they were scattering.

Four Japanese guys with baseball bats, striding across the court. Looking like they meant business.

 _“Kuso!”_   Masuru leaped to his feet and turned to beat a retreat, as did everyone else sitting on the benches. Only to find another group of similarly equipped guys approaching from the other side of the court.

Zoro felt his heart start to hammer.

 _ Fuck  _ _-_

The entire group of youths round the benches broke and ran, in whatever direction looked like it might yield a future without immediate contact with a baseball bat.

 

 

The two groups of older men reacted efficiently, spreading out to catch as many of their victims as they could. Masuru was evidently a key target, being singled out by two guys and taken down on the ground with an ugly sound of baseball bat smacking solidly into flesh.

Zoro zagged around one guy and ducked another’s swing, before almost tripping over someone coughing their guts up on the ground who hadn’t been so lucky. All around him came the sound of impacts and cries of pain. Anyone who went down got no quarter: the ones working Masuru over seemed to be just getting into their stride.

Another guy was suddenly in front of Zoro, swinging his baseball bat. Zoro’s arms went up to block the blow, the urge to dodge away tensing his body.

 

 

Unbidden, some words dropped into his head.

_\- If you back off you’re asking to get stomped._

Zoro’s hands moved. Instead of fending off the descending baseball bat, he caught and gripped it hard and twisted, wrenching it free from the man wielding it. Then he pivoted on his foot, spinning the bat in his hands so that he was gripping the handle, before jabbing it forward in a hard lunge that hit the guy in the stomach and doubled him up with a winded grunt. Zoro followed through with another hit, catching the man on the shoulder hard enough to knock him sideways.

Zoro didn’t wait to see if he got up. There was already someone else moving towards him, another guy who came at Zoro with a bat raised like a sword, yelling threats.

He didn’t even think: his body dropped into stance and he launched his own strike, aiming at the guy’s body as if he was doing a dō strike. He actually heard a rib _crunch,_ and once again his attacker folded, staggering backwards. Zoro stepped in and levelled the next blow at the guy’s opposite side, sending his attacker all the way down.

_I can take you, motherfucker._

Zoro just had time to think this before something slammed into the back of his knees and collapsed him face first onto the tarmac. The bat in his hands fell free and rolled away: he managed to get his hands under him and start to push up – and a blow landed like a hammer against his lower back.

It hurt so much Zoro almost didn’t feel the ones that landed after it. His vision greyed out: then a baseball bat slammed into his side, making him curl up and choke for breath. Some instinct made him wrap his arms around his head just in time, so the next hit just stunned him, instead of losing him an eye.

 

 

Although Zoro was out of it he was still conscious: he could hear sounds, sense movement around him. He kept his arms curled round his head and lay still, largely because right now nothing else was an option. The blow to his side had knocked the wind out of him and it was a long time coming back.

Someone nudged at his side roughly, using the toe of their boot. Tried to flip him over. Zoro clenched his fingers and tried to suck in air more effectively.

“...Fffuck...” Blood was in his mouth, mixed with grit from the ground: he spat, then tried to uncurl and push himself up using his hands, crawl forward.

A hand gripped his shoulder and yanked, rolling him over onto his back. Zoro looked up at the figures circling him, breath finally coming back into his shuddering lungs.

“Get up.” A guy standing over him gestured threateningly with the end of his baseball bat. “Get up, _kisama,_ so we can kill you some more.”

 

 

Zoro just stared back, breathing hard – then lifted his head and spat bloody in the guy’s general direction.

The guy bent down and grabbed the front of Zoro’s t-shirt, wrenching the youth up to his feet so quickly the material ripped. “You’re dead, you piece of shit.”

Zoro knew his chances of getting out of this were exactly zero. So he had nothing left to lose. “...Kiss my ass, _yarou_.”

The guy’s hand smacked against the aching side of his head, fingers clenching into Zoro’s hair and jerking his head backwards.

 

 

“Oi... Hold up.” Another voice sounded.

Zoro felt the grip on his hair release. His head fell forward and he caught an unsteady breath.

A man became visible, as the group opened up to let him step through. “The fuck. I know this one.” A white scar cutting one eyebrow in two. Flat black eyes, that curved up in amusement. “Eh... Long time no see, Roronoa.”

 

 

A name flew out of Zoro’s memory.

_Kazuo._

 

 

“You know this piece of shit?” said the guy who’d pulled Zoro up off the ground.

Kazuo lifted a lit cigarette up to his mouth, blowing out smoke before he answered. “We ran into each other a while back. He came round the bar, looking for his uncle.” He regarded Zoro thoughtfully. “Kichirou ever turn up?”

Zoro tasted blood in his mouth. Didn’t want to risk spitting it out again, so he swallowed. “...No.”

Kazuo let out a slight grunt. “Big surprise.”

“This _kusottare_ busted Toshio’s ribs.” The guy in front of Zoro really wasn’t happy.

“Yeah, I saw that.” Kazuo inhaled smoke again, his eyes narrowing.

 

 

Zoro knew he was a dead man. But he wasn’t going down without a fight. “You assholes jumped us first.”

“Oh; assholes?” Kazuo raised an eyebrow, smiling sardonically at the men around him. “He thinks we’re assholes, eh.” Then he stepped in: Zoro felt his arms gripped from behind, holding him in place. Kazuo lifted his cigarette, bringing the lit end close to Zoro’s face. Spoke low. “You don’t seem to have learned much. Still don’t know when to keep your mouth shut.”

Zoro set his jaw tight. Met the flat black gaze with his own, refusing to look away.

 

 

Kazuo spoke again. “Your friend Masuru there works for my boss. And he’s been cheating on his take. He’s lucky we only came after him with baseball bats.” The black-eyed man gestured with his head to where Masuru lay somewhere over on the ground. “The rest of you, eh... Collateral damage. Consider it a warning, to keep better company.”

Zoro still said nothing to this. Kazuo regarded him for a moment. “Let him go. He’s not going to be a problem.” The hands gripping Zoro’s arms released. He glanced to the side, looking for a possible out, but Kazuo’s hand suddenly gripped his shoulder. “We’re gonna go for a walk, have a conversation.” He gestured with his thumb towards the other men. “The rest of you get gone. Just because we don’t hear any sirens doesn’t mean the cops won’t show up.”

 

 

Zoro walked away with Kazuo’s hand still fastened on his shoulder. The man’s grip wasn’t painful, but the strong fingers held Zoro in a way that signalled pain was an option.

When they were a few minutes’ walk away from the court, Kazuo brought them to a halt in a deserted alley. He stood facing Zoro, his eyes travelling over the youth. “ _Che_... You’re kinda fucked up, Roronoa.”

Zoro knew it. His ripped t-shirt hung askew, and blood spotted the front of it. His back and ribs hurt like hell, and there was a hot pulsing ache on the side of his face where the baseball bat had caught his head. “...Thanks for noticing.”

Kazuo grunted. “But you put up a good fight back there. Taking Toshio down, I saw that. Nice piece of work.”

 

 

Zoro wondered why him knocking the shit out of those guys would put him in Kazuo’s good books. “He piss you off recently or something?”

“Heh.” A sardonic look came and went on Kazuo’s face. “No more than usual. What I meant is, you can fight pretty good. Where’d you learn to do that?”

Zoro wasn’t about to share his kendo training with this piece of lowlife. “Kindergarten.”

Kazuo took a pull on his cigarette. When he spoke again, his voice had changed. Became cold and flat, like his eyes. “You’re a mouthy little fuck. Make one more smartass remark and I’ll forget this is a conversation and make it something else.”

 

 

Zoro breathed in, feeling a stab of pain from his ribs. Met Kazuo’s gaze, but kept quiet.

“Better.” Kazuo regarded him. “You interested in earning some cash, fighting?”

Zoro’s mind went to what he’d just seen. “For fucking people up on the street?”

Kazuo made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “We got guys for that. I’m talking about fighting for money. Hand-to-hand. You get paid for fighting, especially if you win.”

“Huh?” Maybe it was concussion kicking in, but Zoro couldn’t really follow where this was going.

“My boss has a club where we run organised fights, couple of times a month. People come to watch and lay bets. We’re always looking for new fighters... And from what I just saw, you’d fit right in.”

 

 

Zoro didn’t know what to make of this. “How much money?”

Kazuo pursed his lips, blowing out smoke. “Starting out, a hundred dollars to fight. Twice that if you win.”

 _Two hundred dollars?_  “No weapons?”

“Like I said. Hand-to-hand. Whoever puts the other one down first, wins.”

 

 

It was totally fucking crazy. And Kazuo was bad news, and Zoro didn’t even know who the guy’s boss was. But earning maybe two hundred dollars twice a month between now and November... If Zoro could do that, he could make enough money to buy his kendo gear. “Where’s this club?”

Kazuo smiled. “I’ll tell you, the day of the next fight.” He reached into his pocket and took out a cheap burner cellphone: tossed it to Zoro. “Keep this. I’ll call you. Show up where I tell you, eight o’clock. You get there late, don’t bother trying to get in.”

Zoro took the phone, slowly. “When’s the next fight gonna be?”

“Couple of weeks.” Kazuo’s eyes held him. “You plan on being there, Roronoa?”

The phone felt heavy in Zoro’s hand. “...Yeah.”

“You change your mind, I’ll come looking for you.” Kazuo took a last pull on his cigarette, before flicking it away. “Later.” He gave Zoro a quick, sharp-edged smile, then turned and walked away.

 

 

Back in his room Zoro stashed the phone Kazuo had given him, before going to the bathroom to check on the damage.

Kazuo had been right: he looked fucked. Zoro regarded his reflection in the mirror, frowning. The side of his face was swelling up, red and purple already starting to spread down his cheek and round his eye. The blood in his mouth had come from where the blow had driven his cheek against his teeth, but luckily none had been knocked loose.

Zoro ran cold water into the basin and gingerly washed his face. Then he stripped off his torn and bloody t-shirt, wincing as he lifted his arms over his head. Once it was off he looked down at his side: another dark red-purple bruise was forming there, spreading across his ribs. He turned so that he could view his back in the mirror, low down. He could see the line of the baseball bat that had hit him there, a long dark welt running across his lower back.

“...Mother _fucker_...” Zoro regarded the bruising with narrowed eyes. His back and ribs ached steadily; the side of his face felt hot and tender. What he needed was ice, but there was no chance of that.

Instead he used cold water again, splashing it over his skin. Took his wrecked t-shirt and rinsed the blood out of it, before soaking it in water and wringing it out.

 

 

He went through to his bed and lay down on his uninjured side, draping the damp t-shirt over his ribs and back. Dusk had fallen outside now and small breeze had sprung up, moving some warm air through the open window and into his room. Zoro rested his head on his curled arm and shut his eyes.

Kazuo surfaced in his mind.

_\- You can fight pretty good._

Zoro still wasn’t sure if he’d done the right thing. The money Kazuo had said fighters at this club earned was pretty good, sure; but Zoro wasn’t stupid. Even with hand-to-hand, you could get seriously fucked up.

_\- Whoever puts the other one down first, wins._

That meant putting the other guy out. Or hurting him bad enough so that he wasn’t getting up again.

 

 

Lying there now with his back and ribs and head pulsing with a steady sick ache, Zoro wasn’t sure he wanted to put himself in a position where he might get fucked up again. However good the money was.

_Two hundred bucks if I win. A hundred if I lose._

But he’d taken Kazuo’s phone. Had said he would do it. And Kazuo had said if Zoro didn’t show, he’d come looking for him. Which didn’t sound like it would lead to anything good.

 

 

Zoro thought back to the fight in the basketball court, with people scattering in all directions: the way the baseball bats had sounded, hitting bodies. The two men he’d taken down.

Till he got taken down too by that smack in the back of the knees with a bat, Zoro had been doing okay. Had stopped two of their guys, dropping them onto the ground, and he hadn’t felt afraid. It had happened too quickly to think, but even so he’d felt _something_. Hitting back at them: dealing back the damage those fuckers were dishing out.

It had felt weirdly... easy.

Not now, lying here feeling the slow pulse of pain through his bruises; but at the time. Just for a split second, life had felt really fucking simple. _Hit them. Take them down._ And he had.

_Two hundred bucks, if I win._

Zoro made up his mind, then and there, that winning was what he was going to do.

 

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

 

The following days went by slowly. Carrillo showed up at the corner in his truck midweek, needing help with a yard work job: landscaping a big garden for a house on the edge of town, barrowing heavy loads of soil and stone around and laying turf. Zoro had eaten Advil for breakfast, lunch and supper, and it took the edge off enough that he was still able to work.

Friday Carrillo never showed, so Zoro took it easy during the day. As evening came around he headed into the bathroom and checked himself out again in the mirror. His back and side looked worse than they had a week ago, in the way bruises did; the marks darker and spread out. The side of his face looked like shit too: the swelling had gone, but blue-black and purple ringed his eye and tattooed along his cheek bone.

_Whatever. Can’t do anything about it._

He wasn’t going to miss kendo practice. Scowling at the mirror, he turned away.

 

 

Zoro arrived at the community centre way early, intending to get inside and get changed before anyone else showed up, but even so he wasn’t able to get there before Koshiro. He saw his sensei just turning away from his car, arms burdened with kendo gear; Kuina beside him.

Zoro tipped his head down slightly and kept walking, slowing slightly in the hope that they hadn’t noticed him.

“Zoro.” Koshiro’s voice reached him. “Could you help Kuina?”

Taking a deep breath, Zoro looked up. Kuina was trying to heft several bulky kendo bags with spare gear in, her hands struggling to grip everything. “No problem.” He headed forward, stopping near the car and reaching swiftly for some of the bags, trying to keep his head downturned.

 

 

“Uhh! What happened to your face?” Kuina’s exclamation made Zoro’s attempt to make an inconspicuous entrance immediately unsuccessful.

Zoro gave a half shake of his head. “Walked into a door.”

“Someone slam your head in it, too?” She frowned at him.

“Kuina.” Koshiro said this quietly. Then he looked at Zoro. “That’s a bad black eye.”

“Yeah. I iced it, but I still wound up with a shiner.” Zoro didn’t want the attention he was getting. “Where’s this stuff need to go?”

“Into the hall. Thank you, Zoro.” Koshiro didn’t ask any questions, but Zoro felt his sensei’s gaze on him as they walked inside.

 

 

Practice that night wasn’t much fun. Their usual stretching and warm up made Zoro aware of just how badly bruised up his back and ribs still were. When he was sparring he found himself wincing at every strike; even raising his shinai sent sharp aches through the places he’d got pounded the weekend before.

After their final mokuso at the end of the evening Zoro was ready to get the hell out of there. Unusually though, when the session had finished Koshiro asked his students to stay in the hall. Their sensei then announced, “There will be no classes for four weeks: I am visiting Japan, and will not be back until mid-September. Apologies for the break in your training.”

There was a polite murmur of acknowledgement from the assembled kendōka. Koshiro spoke again. “The next class will be on Friday 16th September. I wish you all a good summer, and will see you then.”

 

 

Koshiro’s announcement over, the kendōka filed out of the practice hall. Making sure he was the last one into the male locker room, Zoro headed into a toilet stall and stayed there; waiting and listening to the other kendōka talking as they changed their clothes, until the last voices and footsteps died away with the swinging door closing.

Then Zoro came out: got his street clothes out of his bag and unfastened his borrowed keikogi and hakama. He stripped and stuffed them into his bag, before quickly hauling on his jeans. He reached for his t-shirt and knocked it off the bench onto the floor. Zoro leaned over to try to grab it and let out a hissing curse at the fireworks of pain this set off in his ribs.

“Anyone still in here?” Kuina’s voice was followed by the flat thump of her hand against the door as she pushed it open, striding into the locker room. “Time for lights out - ” She stopped just inside the door, her hand reaching for the light switch, then saw Zoro. Her mouth went into an O.

 

 

Zoro leaned down further and snatched his t-shirt off the floor, before straightening up and jerking it on over his head. When his head emerged Kuina was still standing there, staring at him. He decided to brazen it out. “Hey. This is the _men’s_ locker room.”

“I came to turn the lights out. I have to do it every week.” She gave her head a slight shake, her eyes widening. “Just how many doors did you walk into?”

Zoro sat on the bench and reached for his trainers. “Mind your own business.”

Instead, Kuina came further into the room. “You been in a fight?”

“No.” Zoro knotted his laces, hard, and stood up.

Kuina stood in front of him, frowning. “Zoro... Shit. Someone’s been whaling on you.”

 

 

Zoro had never heard Kuina swear before. “You should see the other guy.” He reached for his bag and picked it up.

“That is seriously messed up.” Kuina looked at him, her brows drawn together in a dark line. “You look like someone’s been beating on you with a two-by-four. Who did that to you?”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Like hell it isn’t. Who...” Kuina got a strange look on her face. “Did that happen to you at _home?_  Did someone in your family hit you?”

 

 

Zoro almost laughed at that. Except it wasn’t really funny. “Fuck... No.”

“Then who? Someone you know?”

Zoro thought of Kazuo, then erased that from his mind. “No.”

Kuina’s jaw tightened. “Have you told the cops what happened?”

“Cops aren’t interested in this.”

“You should tell them, at least make a report - ”

“I’m not telling them shit!” Zoro found his hands clenching into fists, his voice rising. “Look, the neighbourhood I live in, you don’t tell cops about stuff like this. You deal with it yourself. And that’s what I did: dealt with it. Okay? End of.”

 

 

Kuina was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was also angry. “That is unbelievably stupid.”

“Who asked you?”

“You’re a moron. You go out and get stomped in some fight, then come here and do kendo in that state? You look like you’ve had your ribs kicked in. What if someone tonight hit you with their shinai?”

“Duh. Bōgu.” Zoro gestured at the bag he was holding.

“Bōgu isn’t Kevlar, you halfwit. If someone had landed a dō strike on you tonight, you’d have been doubled up on the floor.”

“Wasn’t gonna happen.”

 

 

“ _Bakayarou!”_   Kuina shouted suddenly. In the sudden echoing silence after her shout, she spoke, making each word distinct. “What is wrong with your brain? You walk in here looking like you’ve been in a car wreck, and then do two hours of kendo? You should get those bruises checked out by a doctor.”

“I’m okay.” Zoro shrugged, wanting this conversation over with.

Kuina regarded him as though he was terminally stupid. “You’re a moron.”

“You said that already.”

“Yeah, I was checking your short term memory, for possible brain damage.” She lifted one hand and ran her fingers into her hair. Let out a long breath. “Fuck.”

 

 

Zoro was seeing a whole new side of his sensei’s daughter. “Look, I meant what I said. I can deal with this.”

“Yeah, right.” Kuina dropped her hand, sounding defeated.

“Are you gonna tell your dad about it?” That was a possibility that was worrying Zoro.

Kuina’s face squinched up into outrage. “Are you serious? _That’s_ what’s bothering you, that I might rat you out to him?”

“Well: are you?”

“No!” she exploded, glaring at him. “But he’s not stupid. He doesn’t think you got that black eye walking into a door.”

Zoro wasn’t surprised by this. “I figured that. But don’t tell him...” He paused, then made a quick gesture at himself. “Don’t tell him about the other stuff.”

Kuina folded her arms. “Fine.”

 

 

There was a beat of silence between them. Zoro shifted his kendo bag more firmly onto his shoulder. “You going to Japan with your dad?”

Kuina looked surprised at the change of subject. “Sure.”

“Gonna be doing any kendo over there?”

She nodded. “ _Chichi’s_  visiting some other dojos while we’re there, so yeah. And we’re staying in Tokyo for a week, visiting my aunt...” She rolled her eyes, grimacing; then a smile of satisfaction quickly wiped the grimace away. “But Akiakane are playing Zone-B while we’re there, so I’m gonna go see them live. That’ll be a kickass gig.”

 

 

Zoro found himself smiling in response. “You like punk?”

“Oh yeah.” She eyed him. “You too?”

“Uh huh.”

“What’s your favourite song to listen to right now?”

Zoro folded his arms across his chest. “Ellegarden. Snake Fighting.”

“Hah.” Kuina gave a single approving nod.

 

 

They regarded each other for a moment. Then Kuina let out a slow breath. “So. Uh... My dad’s gonna be waiting...”

Zoro moved, stepping past her towards the door. “See you in four weeks.”

“Zoro.” Kuina’s voice followed him: Zoro stopped in the doorway, glancing back at her. Kuina’s face was serious again. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

Zoro gave her a lazy grin. “Nah, I’m okay.”

Kuina looked irritated by his reply. “Like you’d tell me if you weren’t.”

As this was true, Zoro didn’t think there was much point arguing. “I gotta go.”

“Whatever.” A more familiar annoyed expression settled onto Kuina’s features. “Fine, see you in September.”

“Uh huh.” Zoro pushed open the door and walked out, leaving her behind.

 

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

 

Saturday evening two weeks after his inadvertent meeting with Kazuo, Zoro was lying on his bed reading his borrowed kendo book. The phone he’d been given lay on the bed next to him: it suddenly rang, its shrill tone making him start. Zoro picked it up and hit answer. “Yeah?”

“You still down for a little action tonight, Roronoa?” Kazuo’s voice met him.

“... Yeah.” Zoro sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Good. Get along to the club just before eight. Corner of Ridgewood and Western there’s a bar, Dimitri’s. Go inside and tell the bartender you’re looking for Daidō Kenji.”

Zoro frowned. “The sumo wrestler?  The fuck has he got to do with this?”

Kazuo let out a grunt. “Just do what I say, _aho_. Say that and the bartender’ll show you where to go. Remember: get there on time, or you don’t get to play.” Then he hung up.

 

 

Zoro slowly put down the phone.

 _Corner of Ridgewood and Western._ He thought he knew roughly where that was. About a half-hour walk from his neighbourhood.

Kazuo’s phone was still switched on, so Zoro checked the time on it. A little after half-six. He had plenty of time to change into something he could fight in and head over there. A bar shouldn’t be too difficult to find, he could ask around when he thought he was in the vicinity.

Though Zoro had decided he was definitely going to do this, getting Kazuo’s phone call made his guts jumpy. Deciding to skip eating, he drank a large mug of strong black coffee instead. Put on a faded pair of black cargo pants and a hoodie over a vest top, then headed out.

 

 

It was a quarter to eight when he finally tracked down the bar. Pushing open the door and walking in, Zoro looked around the place. A dozen tables, starting to fill up with evening drinkers. Seats along the bar too, where a broad-shouldered bartender with a shaved head was pouring shots for two guys sitting in front of him.

Zoro walked up to the bar: waited for the bartender to finish serving the two customers, before catching the guy’s eye. The man looked him up and down. “You got ID?” His accent sounded Eastern European, or Russian maybe.

“I don’t want a drink. I’m, uh, looking for Daidō Kenji.”

The bartender regarded him. “Huh.” He gestured with his thumb, towards a door at the rear of the bar. “Go through. Follow the stairs down.”

 

 

Zoro did as he was instructed, pushing open the heavy door which led onto concrete steps, descending in front of him. He walked down them slowly, reaching the bottom and turning a corner to be confronted by another door. This one though had a doorkeeper: a big Japanese guy who at Zoro’s approach pushed himself up off the wall where he’d been leaning and folded his arms.

“I’m looking for Daidō Kenji.” Zoro felt like an idiot saying it again, but it was what Kazuo had told him to do.

The guy cocked one eyebrow. “Wait there. What’s your name?”

“Zoro Roronoa.”

The man grunted, then turned to the door behind him and opened it a little: the noise of a lot of people beyond came out. The guy stepped enough through that he could speak to someone just inside, in Japanese. Zoro couldn’t hear the exchange, but after a moment the door guy re-emerged and nodded at him. “Okay. You can go in.”

Zoro stepped through, and into a long low-ceilinged space. The air was warm and hazed with cigarette smoke, and smelled of alcohol and too many people in a crowded room.

A hand tapped him hard on the shoulder and he looked round. The door guy was standing behind him. “You fighting tonight? You go over there.” And he pointed across the room, to where a knot of people were gathered around a table.

 

 

Zoro pushed his way through the crowd: a lot of Japanese but a mix of other people too. There was a bar down here as well, and most people had bottles or glasses in their hands, talking to each other and laughing. As he threaded his way through Zoro caught sight of an open square of space with no-one in it, more or less in the centre of the room. It looked about the size of a boxing ring, although with no ropes or fence around it: just white lines painted on the floor.

He reached the table and was unsurprised to see Kazuo sitting there, along with a huge fat Japanese guy with tattoos covering his broad arms. Kazuo spotted Zoro and smiled. “Oi, Roronoa. You made it.”

“Yeah.” Zoro nodded.

Kazuo turned to the mountainous guy next to him. “Eh, Shibata. This is the guy I was telling you about.”

Shibata gave the youth an unimpressed look. “His parents know he’s here?”

 

 

“What’s it to you, _debu?”_   Zoro countered with an unimpressed look of his own.

Shibata raised an eyebrow. “You’re right. He is a mouthy little fuck.”

Kazuo let out a grunt, before shaking his head at Zoro. “Mind your manners, _kusogaki_. Or someone here will mind them for you.” He leaned back in his chair. “So, you’re going to fight?”

Zoro folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah.”

“Looks like you already lost a fight before coming here,” Shibata commented.

The bruising on Zoro’s face had faded somewhat, but it was still noticeable. He shrugged. “Yeah, but I fucked up two of the guys that did it.”

“Eh, enough.” Kazuo tapped on the table with one finger. “You’re here to fight with your fists, not with your mouth. Who you gonna put him with, Shibata?”

 

 

The fat man scratched his cheek with one finger. “Hmm... Leon, maybe. They’re about the same size.” His eyes rested on Zoro ironically. “Or about as near your size as you’re gonna get, _chibi_.”

Kazuo nodded. “Leon, fine.” He looked at Zoro. “You’ll be up second fight in. Probably around ten o’clock. You can go get a drink from the bar if you want; but don’t get shitfaced. People don’t pay to watch drunk fighters.”

“Fine.” Zoro nodded.

Shibata fixed him with a steady gaze. “Okay, house rules here. Hand-to-hand fighting, no weapons. You can use whatever style you want: boxing, Taekwondo, MMA, street fighting, whatever. No time-outs, you fight till one of you puts the other down. You get hurt enough you need fixing up afterwards, we got a medic: you pay for him out your winnings. You don’t talk about this place outside of here. Any questions?”

“This guy Leon.” Zoro wanted to get a look at his opponent beforehand, size up the competition. “Where’s he at?”

Kazuo nodded towards the bar. “Over there. Look for the guy wearing the red shirt.”

 

 

Once he’d walked to the far side of the room Zoro searched the crowd by the bar with his eyes, until he caught a flicker of red. He edged through people, moving closer; then suddenly his sight line opened up. Standing with his back to the bar, a guy in a dark red t-shirt, talking with a couple of other men near him.

_Okay. That’s Leon._

The man wasn’t tall, but his bare arms showed he was solidly muscled. He had black hair and a beard, closely-cropped: dark eyes under thick brows that moved expressively as he listened to what the men next to him were saying.

 

 

Zoro studied his opponent, trying to assess his strength. He wondered what Leon’s fighting style would be: basic street fighting, or something more technical. Zoro had never learned any martial arts moves, but he’d been in fights since he was a kid so he figured he knew enough about how to take someone down. And although his kendo training centred around using a shinai, it also focused on footwork, balance and speed. Not to mention being tough as fuck.

_I can take this guy._

Zoro wasn’t going to give any other thought headspace. Kazuo had said that losing fighters still got paid, but it was less money – plus the added drawback of potentially getting fucked up in ways that might take a while to heal from.

 

 

Along the bar Leon turned his head, as if he’d felt Zoro’s gaze. The fighter’s dark eyes met the youth’s: a frown pulled his brows downwards. Zoro met the frown with a level stare, keeping his face unmoving.

Leon said something to the men near him, then turned and stepped along the bar, pushing through till he stopped in front of Zoro and spoke. “You got a reason to be looking at me like you’re memorising my face?”

Zoro let one corner of his mouth hike up. “Just checking out the guy I’m gonna beat tonight.”

“You’re up to fight me?” Leon’s eyes narrowed. “Who the fuck are you? Haven’t seen you in here before.”

“Zoro Roronoa.” Zoro shrugged. “First time.”

 

 

“Roronoa, huh?” Leon sized him up. “Hate to break it to you, newbie; but the only one getting beat down tonight is you. Must be Shibata’s idea of a fuckin’ joke... Spill a little fresh blood.” His gaze moved to the faded bruise on Zoro’s face. “Looks like you’re used to getting your ass kicked, anyways. Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick.”

Zoro gave him a shit-eating grin. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Leon regarded him for a moment longer... Then turned away with a dismissive snort. “Whatever.” He walked back to rejoin his acquaintances by the bar, evidently filling them in on the situation: all three looked in Zoro’s direction, before turning away with derisive grins.

_Yeah, laugh it up, assholes._   Zoro turned away too. His eyes fell on the bar, and he wanted a beer; but he hadn’t brought any cash with him, so that wasn’t an option. So instead he moved away into the shifting crowd of people, drifting closer to the centre of the room. Taking in the sights, the sounds of this place.

Kazuo and Shibata were still sat at their table, occasionally visited by men who were presumably either prospective fighters or people who worked in the club. Zoro spotted another table near them that seemed to be attracting a lot of visitors, and where there looked to be a lot of money changing hands: bets being placed.

 

 

Some considerable while later enough money seemed to have been put down in bets for the evening’s action to start. Shibata stepped into the space in the room’s centre. He raised one hand and the noise of people talking and laughing and drinking died down to a murmur. “Okay: we have another great night of fights lined up for you. And first up tonight, Shiro versus Cezar!”

There was an instant roar of approval, as the two fighters emerged from the crowd and stepped into the ring space. Shibata spoke to each one, receiving nods in return, then the large man backed out of the ring, leaving them to it. The two fighters dropped into stance immediately, starting to circle each other, looking for an opening.

Zoro watched them with narrowed eyes, trying to assess which of the two looked more like a winner. Cezar was bulky with muscle: the Japanese guy Shiro was shorter, but seemed lighter on his feet. Cezar threw the first punch, which Shiro evaded before returning the favour. And then the fight was on, full force: each man striking out, trading blows and taking them, aiming for target areas that would take their opponent out as quickly as possible: face, head, throat, kidneys, stomach, groin. Cezar seemed to be relying on strength, pounding hammer blows at his opponent; while Shiro used his feet as well as his fists, to good effect.

 

 

The fight ebbed and flowed, each combatant taking hits that had them temporarily falling back, before coming back at their opponent accompanied by the raucous yelling of the onlooking crowd. Shiro took a punch to the face that left him with one eye almost blinded by a cut above it; but he span on his heel and delivered a hammering kick that connected with Cezar’s knee from the side, bringing the bigger man down. Cezar managed to get up again but was noticeably limping as the fight resumed.

Zoro thought he knew how this fight was going to end. And a few minutes later he was proved right, when Shiro wiped the bigger man out with a series of strikes that included him targeting the same knee he’d damaged earlier. Cezar went down again, and this time Shiro finished him off with a couple of solid punches to the head that sent the other fighter onto his face on the floor. Shiro stood next to him in readiness to deliver more punishment but the bigger man made no attempt to get up: the bout was over. The watching crowd let out a roar of approval. Shibata appeared back in the ring, stepping over to the Japanese fighter and gesturing at him. “The winner of this fight: Shiro!” There was another roar. “We have another fight coming up very soon: don’t forget to place your bets if you’ve yet to do so.” With that Shibata exited the ring, followed by Shiro who raised his fists in a brief gesture of victory before he moved into the congratulatory crowd.

Zoro watched for a little longer, as Cezar was picked up from the floor and helped out of the ring, looking semi-conscious. The whole fight had taken a little over ten minutes. Which wasn’t too surprising: both those guys had gone all-out.

 

 

“Having second thoughts, Roronoa?” Kazuo’s voice sounded just behind him. Zoro turned, to see Kazuo standing there with a sardonic smile on his face.

Zoro gave him a level look. “Just thinking this is gonna be the easiest two hundred bucks I ever earned.”

Kazuo let out a harsh grunt of laughter. “Let’s hope you fight as big as you talk.” He gave Zoro a parting smile, before moving off through the crowd.

 

 

Shibata found Zoro in the crowd a little later, tapping the youth hard on the shoulder and jerking his thumb towards the ring. “You’re up in five. Get ready.”

That took very little time, because all Zoro had to do was take off his hoodie and stash it out of the way in a dark corner. He made his way through the crowd to the centre of the room, pushing through the closely-packed bodies near the ring and stepping into the open space where Shibata already stood waiting with Leon. The other fighter gave Zoro an unimpressed glance, before giving a half-shake of his head.

Shibata looked at the youth. “Ready to go?”

“Uh huh.” Zoro could feel a sudden tension humming through his body, making it hard to stand still. He clenched and unclenched his fists; rolled his shoulders.

 

 

Shibata stepped into the centre of the ring and raised his hand. Once the crowd noise had died down, he announced, “Second fight on the card tonight: we have some new talent in the ring!” His eye rested on Zoro ironically, making it clear that _talent_ was something he doubted Zoro was going to demonstrate. “Taking on one of our return fighters, Leon - ” Shibata paused for the crowd to yell its support “ – is newcomer, Zoro Roronoa!”

There was another roar from the crowd, not entirely of approval. As the shouting ebbed a little someone heckled over the top of it, producing a few laughs, “What’s he use for fighting with - his face?”

Shibata walked out of the edge of the ring, leaving the space to the two fighters. Across from Zoro, Leon moved, stepping sideways, his hands coming up into fists. Zoro did the same, feeling the floor through the soles of his trainers, the air moving against his skin. Hearing the shouts and cat-calls of the crowd around them.

Leon’s eyes followed him as they circled each other, the black-haired man’s face impassive. Waiting.

 

 

_Fuck with this._

Zoro moved, throwing a punch towards Leon’s head. The other man dodged to take it on his shoulder, his own fist coming up in lightning-quick answer aimed at Zoro’s throat. He managed to avoid that but the blow slammed into his upper chest. It felt like being hit by a shovel.

Leon stepped swiftly in, throwing his hand over Zoro’s head and grabbing the back of his neck, yanking the youth forwards at the same time as bringing up his knee. Zoro tried to sling his own arm round the other man’s waist, to punch him in the ribs, but the next instant Leon kneed him hard in the stomach. Twice: the air was knocked out of him with a gasp.

_Shit –_

Leon’s hand tried to force him further forward, to bring Zoro’s head down to where the other fighter could knee him in the face. Zoro twisted and grabbed the man’s raised leg round the knee, burying his shoulder into Leon’s gut and shoving forwards so that they both went sprawling down onto the floor.

 

 

For a few seconds they grappled before Leon rolled them and they broke apart, each getting back to their feet. Without pausing the older man moved in swiftly, launching a kick at Zoro’s knee before punching at his face. Zoro evaded this, swinging his own blow at the other man. His momentum carried him forward and suddenly Leon was stepping past him, hooking his arm round Zoro’s neck from behind and tightening it into a choke hold that locked firm. The other man twisted and used his body as leverage, hauling Zoro backwards over him so that the youth’s feet actually left the ground.

Zoro’s hands came up instinctively to try to break the hold, as Leon’s forearm clamped down over his throat. The man gave a wrench, jerking the hold tighter.

Zoro dropped his arms... Then rammed his elbow back into Leon’s side, as hard as he could. The other man’s grip broke and Zoro staggered free, sucking in a breath and turning around to face his opponent. But not quickly enough: Leon was already moving in, punching, two hard blows slamming into Zoro’s head in quick succession so that he fell back. The other man tried to follow through with a kick aimed at his groin, but Zoro managed to sidestep this. He lurched to a halt, blinking and breathing hard, the crowd sounds an unsteady roar in his ears.

 

 

Leon stood in front of him, smiling grimly. “Hey, asshole... Now both sides of your face match.”

Zoro shook his head to clear it. Feeling hot points of pain on his cheek; at the corner of his mouth. Tasting blood for the second time in as many weeks. Hearing the noise of the crowd around them, calling out for more.

_Two ways this can go._

 

 

The sounds of the crowd faded down, going far away. The people outside the lit space of the ring faded too, leaving just the two of them in hard focus. Time slowed, giving Zoro all the space he needed to finish this. Inside his head a thought rising, hard and clear.

 _Do whatever it takes to put this motherfucker down._  

This time when Leon stepped in Zoro moved forward too, dodging the other man’s punch and slamming an elbow strike into Leon’s head that sent him reeling backwards. Following up fast, hitting out, feeling his fists connect with flesh and bone. Something intense rising up and flooding through him, driving his blows home.

Leon swayed, then hit back: a kick found Zoro’s stomach. He hardly felt it, falling back only to step in again. Ducking under the other man’s next swing, Zoro punched out, aiming for his opponent’s throat. Heard Leon let out a choked noise before the other man staggered backwards.

 

 

There in the ring, under the lights, there was suddenly nothing to hold Zoro back. Something dark and fierce being let loose, that he hadn’t even realised was filling him up. Like thick hot smoke from fires that had been lit over a year ago; burning him from the inside out.

Everything fell into place. As Zoro stepped in it felt like every movement was following the only trajectory it could take. Unstoppable.

He punched Leon in the face. Then in the stomach. Hitting him swiftly, again, and again. Closing in, targeting wherever would do the most damage. Fists landing on the other man’s body, over and over.

 

 

Until the other fighter went down on the floor, and lay there. Unmoving.

Zoro stood next to him and some part of him wanted Leon to get up, so he could hit him some more. That fierce power, that strength still running through his body like an electrical charge. He felt his fists clench tight. Trying to hold onto it.

Then as if a switch had been flicked the world came back in a rush, all of a piece. Zoro could hear the excited roar of the watching crowd again. Celebrating the fight’s outcome, and their winnings.

He looked down, at Leon lying groaning on the floor. The fighter’s face was a bloody mask. Every detail was clear and distinct; every dark bruise on the skin, every blood spatter.

 

 

Zoro could feel his own body too now. The hot ache of his knuckles, the points of warm pain where the other fighter’s hits had reached him. The surge and hammer of his heart racing under his ribs, just beginning to slow. And over everything, a wild rising flood of something he couldn’t put a name to at first, because it was so unfamiliar. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He felt really fucking good.

Zoro stared down at the beaten man on the floor, slight shivers coming and going in his shoulders, and some returning part of him tried to be heard through the fading rush. Some discordant voice that whispered, _Enjoying this? You are wrong in the head._

 

 

Zoro took a long breath in. And pushed the voice down to where he couldn’t hear it any more.

The enthusiastic approval of the watching crowd filled his ears instead. He continued to look at the man he’d put down, still lying on the floor.

_I fucking beat you, asshole._

For the first time since his uncle had disappeared, Zoro had given back to the world some of the shit it had been relentlessly raining down on him ever since. And that felt so. Damn. Good.

 

 

Shibata was suddenly there next to him. The bulky man gave Zoro a sidelong look, before announcing to the crowd, “Roronoa is the winner!” The onlookers met this declaration with mingled shouting and cheering. “Tonight’s third fight coming up in a half hour: last chance to place your bets.”

The packed people parted to let two men through: the pair Zoro had seen Leon talking with at the bar earlier. They each took hold of one of the defeated fighter’s arms, helping him to his feet. Leon was still too out of it to do much, but his handlers shot Zoro a dirty look as they half-carried him out of the ring.

Shibata spoke beside him. “Oi. You can clear out now.”

Zoro looked at him. “When do I get paid?”

The big man let out a dismissive snort. “Soon as you like. Come to the table, you’ll get your money.”

 

 

Zoro walked to the edge of the ring and shouldered his way through the crowd. People got out of his way readily enough; a few threw comments at him as he passed. He tuned them out, heading to the corner of the room where he’d left his hoodie. When he picked it up he used it to wipe his face and neck, sweat cooling on his skin. And not just sweat: his mouth stung, and when he touched the corner of it his fingertips came away bloody.

Zoro pulled his hoodie on over his head, then explored the cut on his lip cautiously with his tongue. He could feel other aches too: on the side of his face, and in his gut where Leon had kicked him. But all things considered, he wasn’t too badly banged up.

 

 

He found his way back to the table where Shibata was sitting again, and waited while the fight organiser counted out his earnings.

“Two hundred.” Shibata flicked the last bill onto the pile in front of him, then pushed the money across the table to the youth. “Don’t spend it all at once.”

“Uh huh.” Zoro picked the cash up, folded it and shoved it deep into his pants pocket. Then turned away, intending to get the hell out of there.

“Oi.” Shibata’s voice called him back. Zoro paused: looked over his shoulder. The big man nodded at him. “You didn’t do so bad up there. You want to fight here again, another time?”

Zoro gave him a nod. “Yeah. When’s the next club night?”

“Two weeks.”

“I’ll be here.”

Shibata nodded, as if unsurprised. “Show up on time, you’ll get to fight.”

 

 

Zoro was moving through the shifting throng of people, heading towards the way out, when a hand thumped against his shoulder. Looking round, Kazuo’s dark gaze met his own.  “Hah... Nice piece of work, Roronoa.”

“Right.” Zoro could care less about Kazuo’s opinion.

“You leaving already?”

Zoro gave a shrug. “Done what I came for.”

A smile twisted up the edges of Kazuo’s mouth. “Don’t be in such a hurry. Someone wants to meet you.”

“Who?”

“My boss.” Kazuo gestured with his thumb towards the rear of the room. “He’s sitting back there. I’ll take you to him.”

“What if I don’t want to meet him?”

Kazuo gave a slight shake of his head. “ _Baka..._ You really ought to get smart. This is his club: that money in your pocket, he just paid you. You think showing him disrespect is a good idea?”

Zoro shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets, frowning. But said nothing.

 

 

Kazuo gave another smile. “Come on. Better not keep him waiting.” And placed his hand on Zoro’s back, between his shoulder blades. Steering him forwards, with unarguable pressure.

They got to the far end of the room, where there were low tables with more comfortable seating: evidently an area set aside for club-goers who were VIP customers of sorts. At one table a smartly dressed Japanese man sat alone. Behind him a large man in a dark suit stood with folded arms against the nearby wall, watching everyone in the vicinity with steady attention.

Kazuo brought Zoro to a halt at the table. “ _Kumicho:_   this is Roronoa.”

 

 

The man looked up, keen eyes focussing on Zoro’s face. They studied him for a moment, before the man spoke. “Ah. Our newest winner.” His voice was low; slightly rough-edged. “Sit.” He gestured to the seat opposite him.

Zoro found his gaze switching up to the impassive-looking guy standing by the wall... Then back to the man at the table. And decided to opt for co-operation.

Once he’d sat down, the man spoke again. “So, Roronoa Zoro... You seem to be luckier than your uncle.”

That made Zoro’s heart start to speed up in his chest. “I wouldn’t know.”

The man smiled slightly. “Your _oji_ still owes me money. If he ever turns up...” He raised one eyebrow. “I’ll be collecting it with interest.”

Clenching his hands into fists under the table, Zoro kept his face expressionless. “I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

 

 

Beside him, Kazuo let out a hard exhale. “Oi, _kisama:_ show some fucking respect. Or I’ll take you outside and teach you some.”

The man sitting opposite looked up briefly at Kazuo, then gestured with one hand as if dismissing a problem. “I think this one is just uninformed.” His gaze settled back on Zoro. “Do you know who I am?”

“I know you’re his boss.” Zoro indicated Kazuo with a nod of his head. “And this is your club.”

“Correct. My name is Yoshiyuki Takenaka. I own this place... Along with a number of others.”

 

 

Zoro didn’t doubt it. And didn’t even try to speculate on what else Takenaka might be into.

 

 

Takenaka regarded him with a small smile. “Kazuo said he thought you would fight well. Happily he was right.”

Zoro found his gaze lifting briefly to Kazuo... Then back to the man in front of him. Takenaka’s eyes were steady; assessing. The club owner spoke again. “You plan to fight here in two weeks’ time.” It wasn’t a question. Somehow what Zoro had said to Shibata had already found its way to the club’s owner.

“Yeah.” There seemed little point to Zoro in denying it.

Takenaka nodded. “Good.” That same small smile came again. “Your win this evening was quite profitable for me.”

Zoro wondered how. Takenaka evidently saw this in his face, and nodded at him. “An unknown new young fighter, up against a man who has won several fights here... Many people placed bets against you. So they lost their money. To me.”

 

 

_I didn’t do it for you, shithead._

Zoro made sure that he kept his face expressionless. Because however positive Takenaka’s words seemed to be, there was more going on beneath the surface. With his smartly-cut short hair and expensive tailored suit, the club owner looked like a successful businessman. But there was an intensity about his gaze: a power there that was completely at ease. Because nothing could threaten it.

Takenaka reached out towards a porcelain sake cup that stood on the table in front of him: its small bowl dark red, with a pattern of bamboo leaves highlighted in gold. Picking it up he took a sip from it, before replacing it on the table.

Seeing Zoro’s eyes following the cup, Takenaka touched it lightly with his forefinger, before taking his hand away. “Edo period porcelain. A good _daiginjo_ deserves a fine vessel.” The man’s eyes rested on Zoro. “A fine era, also. You know Japanese history?” When the youth half-shook his head, Takenaka looked unsurprised. “The Edo period lasted for nearly three centuries. A time of order and stability, economic growth and flourishing of the arts. And also the time when many samurai became rōnin. Drifters, mercenaries and criminals.” The man’s steady gaze seemed to look into Zoro’s head. “Masterless warriors.”

 

 

Somewhere back in the crowd in the main part of the club, the hum of people’s voices pulsed louder. Kazuo looked towards the noise, then back at his boss. “The third fight will start soon.”

Takenaka gave a single nod. “A full programme tonight?”

“Six bouts.” Kazuo nodded towards the throng. “And we’re almost at capacity.”

“Excellent. Tell Shibata to bring the takings as soon as the bets from the last fight are placed.” Kazuo nodded, and Takenaka looked back at Zoro. “You should stay to watch.”

What Zoro actually wanted to do was get out of there, but he couldn’t think of a way to say no that didn’t sound provocative. Takenaka evidently perceived his hesitation, and one corner of his mouth lifted. “The night’s young. Stay and have a drink. See some of the other fighters. One of them may be your opponent next time.” He looked up at Kazuo and made a quick gesture with one hand. “Take our young friend here to the bar, get him whatever he wants.”

 

 

“Yes, _kumicho_.” Kazuo assented readily, before tapping Zoro firmly on the shoulder. “Oi. Lose your voice, for once?”

Zoro knew what was expected of him. And what the fuck: he had his money safe in his pocket, and he was being offered free booze. So it wouldn’t hurt to make nice. He stood up, facing Takenaka. “Thanks.”

The club owner rested one arm up on the back of his seat, tilting his head a little one side as he regarded the youth. “You’re welcome.” His tone was almost mocking, but not quite. His eyes coolly amused, as if he both knew what Zoro was thinking, and cared absolutely nothing about it.

 

 

The encounter was finished, but it almost felt dangerous, turning his back and walking away. As Zoro followed Kazuo to the bar, he wanted to glance back in Takenaka’s direction... But resisted the urge.

At the bar, Kazuo looked at him. “What do you want?”

Zoro shrugged. “A beer.”

Kazuo summoned the bartender over with a jerk of his head. “Two beers.”

 

 

When the drinks arrived Kazuo passed one to Zoro then moved a little away from the bar, before taking a swig from his own bottle. He regarded the youth for a moment; then nodded towards the fight space in the centre of the room. “Next fight starts in a few minutes. You want a good view, better get over there.”

Zoro took a swallow of his own beer. “Wasn’t planning to watch it.”

“Figures. You think you don’t need to, right?” Kazuo let out a short laugh.

“I beat that guy tonight. Whoever they put me to fight next time, I’ll beat them.”

The enforcer smiled. “You are one cocky little fuck.”

“You ever fight here?”

Kazuo let out an amused snort. “I don’t need to do this shit.”

 

 

_Guess not._

Judging by the way Kazuo had spoken to Takenaka, he was the club owner’s right-hand man. Zoro wondered how that worked. “How long’s this place been here?”

“That’s a question you don’t need to be asking.” Kazuo took another pull on his beer. “You want to fight here, you show up on time; you fight; you get paid. And you keep your mouth shut afterwards. Keep it simple, _gaki_.”

Zoro elected not to push his luck any further. There were a few minutes of quiet between them, while the crowd in the club got steadily more noisy as the start of the next fight approached.

Kazuo finally upended his beer bottle, draining it; then set it down on a nearby table. “Got things I need to be doing, right now... But stick around awhile. There’ll be a few guys partying afterwards, over at Shibata’s place.” His gaze rested on Zoro’s face, appraisingly. “Free drinks and shit. Some of the other fighters’ll be hanging there.”

Zoro took another swallow of his own drink. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Kazuo turned away, saying nothing more.

 

 

The third fight came and went; a little later, a fourth bout followed. Zoro finished his beer and got another, with his own money this time. He mentally set himself the boundary that he wasn’t going to blow any more of his hard-earned cash on buying booze, and stuck to it doggedly. Made the second beer last a long time.

He found himself a chair to sit on, at a table at the edge of the room. Away from the action: the noisy, shifting crowd that pressed in around the fight ring every time a bout started. He drank his beer a sip at a time, watching the faces of the people around him. They looked ordinary for the most part: just regular guys out for an evening’s illicit entertainment, surfing the adrenaline by proxy of watching two people beat the shit out of each other. A few looked to be Takenaka’s employees: younger, hard-faced, moving about the space more purposefully. Watching the crowd.

There was no real reason for Zoro to loiter there. He could have gone home and crashed. But for some reason he didn’t want to. Maybe because he was still surfing the buzz from the fight, still feeling the aftermath of that heady euphoria that had burned through him like an electrical charge. He didn’t want to come down. And Kazuo’s mention of a party afterwards might provide the means to keep the buzz going.

 

 

So Zoro stayed sitting at his table, and slowly finished his beer. Listened to the sounds of the fights; of the watching crowd. And when the final bout of the evening had ended and the crowd was thinning out, drifting back to the bar or homeward, he was still sitting there when Kazuo appeared again.

The man gave him a one-sided smile. “Oi, Roronoa... You want to come and party, we’re heading there now.”

Half a dozen men left the club together and walked through the night streets to Shibata’s place. Zoro kept towards the back and didn’t talk, watching the group instead. Some were obviously regular club fighters, exchanging insults over that night’s performances or previous matches.

 

 

When they arrived at a three-storey townhouse Zoro half expected Shibata’s place to be an apartment within the building... But once inside it turned out the whole house was his: the front door opened onto a party already under way, music thumping out with a backbeat of voices talking, laughing, calling out greetings.

Zoro walked down a hallway, glancing into doorways that opened into rooms where people lounged on couches, or stood propped against walls, talking together. Women here as well as men, good-looking women in stylish outfits, a man’s arm slung around their shoulder or waist. The heavy pulse of music raising people’s voices so that there was a constant buzz of sound. And the bluegrey tang of weed in the air, mixing into the smell of warm bodies and alcohol.

 

 

Zoro drifted upstairs to the next floor, feeling restless; starting to wonder why the hell he’d come.

“Oi, Roronoa.” Kazuo’s voice lifted out of the background noise. Zoro looked round: the enforcer was standing leaning in a nearby doorway, a lit joint in his mouth. “You look like a wandering ghost. Come in here and chill the fuck out.” He blew out a lungful of smoke, before gesturing towards the room behind him with a nod of his head.

_Whatever._

Zoro moved past the older man, into the room. A couple of couches were ranged around the walls, with a low table in front of them laden with drinks. Half a dozen guys were sitting around drinking and smoking; most of them glanced up at Zoro as he came in. Kazuo spoke beside him. “Eh, make some room for the _shinmai_.” He held the joint out to Zoro: the youth took it and sat down, taking a hit on it and holding the smoke in his lungs.

 

 

“You’re the one took Leon down tonight,” commented one of the guys sitting nearby.

Zoro let the smoke escape slowly from his mouth, before the passing the joint back to Kazuo. “Yeah.”

“Fucked his shit up good.” The man chuckled. “Broke his lucky streak. I’ll bet Takenaka cleaned up on that fight.”

“Where’d you find this kid, Kazuo?” another guy asked. “It’s way past his bed time.”

Kazuo took a hit on the joint himself, before passing it on. “You think he looked drowsy in that ring tonight, asshole?”

There was a general burst of laughter at that. “Leon was the one went sleepy-time.” One man picked up an unopened bottle of beer from the table and tossed it in Zoro’s direction. “Here, _chibi_. Welcome to the club.”

 

 

From that point on it was simple enough. The beers were there for anyone who wanted them; someone was constantly rolling up a joint and sending it round; the conversation was mainly of the easy bullshit variety. Zoro sat back and let the buzz envelop him like a nice warm blanket.

He lost track of time. Lost track of how many beers he’d drunk too: which wasn’t a problem, as long as he didn’t get too wasted to find his way home.

A couple of the guys on the couch furthest away started to argue about something sports related, their voices climbing higher in volume. Kazuo raised his voice too, overtopping them. “Oi, shut the fuck up, you two. Who gives a shit anyway.” He leaned forward, taking a baggie out of his pocket and tossing it onto the table. “You want to argue like old women, take it elsewhere.” The two guys subsided into half-hearted grumbling. “Someone toss me a card.” He opened the baggie, tipping crystal shards into a neat pile on the glass-topped table.

Zoro watched the process, holding his beer bottle resting on his thigh. Seeing the way Kazuo’s fingers moved with sure familiarity as he placed the borrowed bank card over the crystal meth and pressed down, breaking it into grains with a faint crunch.

“Hey, you oughta mash it with a lighter,” one of the other men advised. “Crushes it finer.”

“Anyone ask you for advice, _yarou?”_ Kazuo unhurriedly continued prepping the drug, using the card’s edge to chop it into powder. When he’d done this to his satisfaction he cut it into lines, before taking a short straw out of his pocket and snorting up the biggest line. He sat back with narrowed eyes, snagging his beer off the table and chugging back a mouthful. “ Hah...”

 

 

The guy sitting next to Zoro on the couch leaned forward next, digging out a ten dollar bill and rolling it, before using this to snort his own line. He sat back grimacing, blinking watering eyes. “Fuck, that _bites_.”

“That’s good, _aho._ Means it’s not bunk shit.” Kazuo looked at Zoro. “Your turn, Roronoa.” Zoro looked at the lines of meth. “C’mon, _gaki_. You’re holding up the party. Use a pen if you got one: otherwise just be fucking old school like Jirou here and roll up a bank note.”

The money Zoro had been paid was still wedged into his pocket. He pushed his hand in and extracted a ten: copied what Jirou had done, rolling the note into a tube.

_The fuck are you doing?_

 

 

That small voice nagging in his head again. The same voice that had come after he’d won his fight earlier that night: questioning that wild elation that had surged through him. And like he’d done then, Zoro pushed it way down. To where he couldn’t hear it any more.

He leaned forward towards the table. The rolled paper felt light and fragile between his fingers. Bringing it to one nostril he guided the other end to one of the lines of powder, before snorting up the meth with one hard inhalation.

The meth hit the inside of his nose like acid, a burning sensation filling his eyes with water. He sat back quickly, his eyes shutting in an involuntary grimace.

 

 

“Ey, suck it up, newbie.” Laughter around him.

“Someone pass the kid a beer.”

Zoro felt a bottle nudged against his side: managed to open his eyes.

“Have a drink and you won’t taste that shit as bad.”

Zoro took the beer and chugged a great mouthful, then swallowed hard. His eyes were still watering: it felt like his sinuses were on fire. He tried to breathe through his mouth, in the hope that this would help.

“First time, eh.” Kazuo’s voice reached him. Zoro blinked the water out of his eyes and looked up. The other man was giving him a sly grin. “Don’t worry. Once it hits, you’ll forget about the burn.”

 

 

Every man took his turn at snorting a line. Zoro leaned back into the couch and drank beer in steady sips, starting to feel the pain slowly diminish. And with it a weird feeling of countdown, towards something unknown.

After a few minutes, he started to feel it. The buzz coming on: not a head rush, but a growing sensation of clarity. As if all the conflicting thoughts, the knots in his head were being loosened and released. The weed and the alcohol that had began to cloud the edges of the world getting washed away. His consciousness opening up, focussing: as if the meth had reached into his brain and wiped clean the windows. And with that clarity an expanding awareness, of how good this was. How good he felt.

The beer bottle in his hand felt cool and smooth and hard: pleasingly solid. He lifted it and took a drink, feeling the sour tingle of beer slide down his throat. Washing away the slightly bitter tang that kept coming at the back of his mouth.

 

 

“Eh, that is some good _shabu_.”

“Too good for you.” Kazuo said this with a narrow grin. “Make the most of it. I’m feeling generous.” There was a chorus of low laughs at this. “Oi, Roronoa. You feeling it yet?”

Zoro met the other man’s dark-eyed gaze. Feeling warmth flooding under his skin. His heartbeat drumming in his chest, the rhythm picking up as if he was running. “...Yeah.”

Kazuo regarded him, still looking amused. “Enjoy the ride.”

 

 

 

 

 

Zoro lost track of things round about then. When the heat and the rush and the feeling good just took over. Losing track of exactly what he did or said. All the clouds blown away, by the meth flying through him like a clean wind. And that wind bringing with it a flood of energy that made it hard to sit still. Made him want to get up and move, burn that energy off.

Which was probably why he found himself outside, sometime later on, in the street. It was still dark but coming up to dawn, and he was still speeding. Walking fast along the sidewalk, not exactly sure where. He didn’t even remember leaving Shibata’s place. He recalled drinking more and smoking more, in the room with Kazuo and those other guys. And wandering around the house. And now he was outside: in the cool summer night air, moving down the street as if he knew where he was going. But he didn’t. Which didn’t matter.

 

 

There were hardly any people about at that hour, which made it easier to walk. But after a while walking wasn’t enough: Zoro broke into a run. Feeling the cool pre-dawn air rushing past him, the firm hit of the tarmac sidewalk meeting his trainers; his legs pushing him onwards, easily, swiftly. Sweat dampening his hoodie so that he stripped it off and knotted it round his waist and ran on. Feeling like he was leaving everything behind. Outpacing all the shitty problems and unanswerable questions and dark memories he wanted to ditch, now and forever. Breathing in the air that was crisp and clean, unsullied by daytime traffic. The city still asleep and waiting to happen. Running and running and feeling so good, so fucking alive, his life seeming like at last it was opening up instead of shutting down.

 

 

He ran until the sun came up. Finally stopped and watched it rise, sitting on the back of a bench in a park somewhere. Sunlight striking through the trees, little glints of yellow and white and green that dazzled and made him blink.

It had to be hours since he’d been sitting on the couch at Shibata’s place. The wild rush of euphoric energy felt like it had almost burned itself out: like he was coming down. Zoro watched the sunrise through half-closed eyes and decided it might be time to head the hell home get some sleep.

 

 

It took him a while to find his way back. By the time he unlocked the padlock on his door and walked inside, Zoro felt like he was sleepwalking. He took off his trainers; dragged off his hoodie and dropped it on the floor, before falling onto his bed and closing his eyes.

Daylight was pushing into the room, bright against his closed eyelids. He brought one arm up and draped it over his face, shutting the new day out. But sounds filtered through too, from the waking-up street outside. Traffic noises; people noises; echoing in his ears.

His body felt strung out: tired and restless, his legs twitching occasionally as if he was still running. He could feel aches in his muscles; and in the places he’d taken hits in his fight.

After-images kept playing behind his closed eyes, like when you stared at a light too long. Leon’s contemptuous glance at him before their fight, from the other side of the ring. The way he’d looked at the end lying on the floor, his face bloody and swollen. The eager, chaotic mass of the watching crowd. The cool amusement in Takenaka’s eyes. Kazuo’s sharp-edged grin.

_\- Oi, Roronoa. You feeling it yet?_

 

 

Zoro’s body was craving sleep, but his brain was buzzing like a kicked hornet’s nest. He lay there for a little while longer, determinedly keeping his eyes shut, waiting for the traffic in his head to subside.

He became aware of something digging into him. Something in his pants pocket.

_Fuck. The money._

Zoro opened his eyes and sat up, shoving his hand into his pocket and extracting the folded wad of notes. And something else, that he didn’t even remember putting in there: what looked like a dub sack of weed. He regarded it for a moment, frowning slightly.

_Huh._

 

 

His eyes fell on the money. Picking it up Zoro counted it: he was down about twenty-five bucks. The beer at the club... And the grass sitting in front of him. Which presumably he must have scored off Kazuo or someone else at Shibata’s place, but he couldn’t remember doing it. Couldn’t remember much there after doing that line of meth. Not surprisingly: he’d downed a shitload of beers and smoked a hella lot too.

His head was still buzzing, but he really wanted to sleep. His whole body felt heavy now, muscles aching. His mouth felt dry too, a slightly bitter aftertaste stubbornly there.

_Fuck it._

Zoro got up and went to the bathroom: drank water from the faucet in gulps until he felt like he could taste it at the back of his throat. Plodded back to his bed and sat down. Reached for the grass, and skinned up a fat joint. Smoked it all; then rolled another. Halfway down this one he felt it starting to do the trick: the rushing thoughts in his head beginning to haze out. He finished the second joint and then lay down again. This time when he closed his eyes he felt himself drifting down into grey obscurity. And on into black.

 

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

The men’s locker room was noisy with conversation, of kendōka exchanging news and updates after their summer break. Zoro let it flow around him as he got changed back into street clothes, stowing away his kendo gear in his bag.

It had been a good practice. Good to get back into the routine of sparring and learning new techniques; even the kneeling in mokuso. A month without kendo class had felt like a long time. Even with the other stuff that he was now into.

Zoro had fought a second time at Takenaka’s club, and had won again. Which meant he now had around three hundred dollars stashed under a floorboard in his room, the beginnings of his stake to buy his own kendo gear.

The rest of the money he’d spent. Because Kazuo had made it clear, that second time at the club, that the freebie hit of meth Zoro had previously gotten at Shibata’s party was a one-time deal. From hereon in, Zoro was a paying customer.

 

 

So Zoro had scored a baggie of meth. The first time he’d prepped and snorted a line on his own in his room, it had felt kind of weird. But after the eye-watering burn that same rush had come on, as powerful as before. Mirroring the rush Zoro got from the fighting: that fierce release which flooded through him, unleashing something that felt good to let go.

Like before, Zoro found he didn’t want to lose that fight buzz. And the meth was a sure-fire way to extend it. Producing that high that filled him with energy, with feelgood, that once again sent him out onto the street. Needing to keep moving until the fire burned itself out and he could return home and crash. Sleeping for hours and waking up feeling more or less okay. Kind of like he did after recovering from a bad hangover: wiped and slightly restless, fuzzy round the edges.

Coming down enough to sleep was easier if he smoked a few joints. And next time he’d try something stronger: score some Xanax and pop one when the rush was fading, so he could crash out quicker and sleep off the less-fun comedown.

 

 

The kendōka around him in the locker room were thinning out now. Zoro picked up his kendo bag and headed to the door, nodding at Hiroshi and a few others he knew by name. He didn’t get into conversation much after practice, mainly because he’d probably wind up having to lie about stuff. All the usual everyday questions that people asked were ones he couldn’t really answer truthfully. _You live round here? What school do you go to? You got a girlfriend?_

That last one was always going to be a bitch to deal with. Especially when asked in a locker room full of guys in varying states of undress. Zoro knew better than to obviously get an eyeful of what was unconsciously displayed, but that didn’t mean he was above copping a sidelong look when the opportunity presented itself.

That was another thing the meth high brought with it, Zoro had quickly realised. All that stuff they’d had droned at them in sex-ed classes at school, about the dangers of STDs and what-all when alcohol lowered your inhibitions... Which had been a big laugh at the time, watching teachers plumb the depths of awkward trying to find polite ways of saying _Hey kids, don’t get wasted and screw around._ But no-one had ever mentioned that meth made you even hornier than alcohol or weed.

Zoro dealt with this the way he usually did: in private, by rubbing one out. Maybe thinking at the same time about someone he’d looked at in the men’s locker room. And it was okay, just another bonus of the heady mix of wild energy and all-is-well-with-the-universe that meth gave him... But it also left him wanting something more. Some _one_ more.

 

 

The locker room door clunked shut behind him, and he headed down the corridor to the exit. He had only walked a few steps when a familiar voice summoned him from behind. “If you’re heading out, I could use some help carrying this stuff.”

Zoro turned around. Kuina stood a few paces behind him, hefting an armful of kendo paraphernalia. She grinned at him. “Unless you’re feeling too feeble after jigeiko to manage that.”

Zoro let out a short dismissive _huff._  “Hey: if you’re incapable of toting a few sets of bōgu, then I guess I can lend a hand. You being the weaker sex and all.”

 

 

Kuina narrowed her eyes. “Weaker, my ass.” She dumped a couple of bags on the floor by his feet.

Zoro picked them up, eyeing her. Specifically, her hair, which was dyed a red so bright it was practically neon. “You do that while you were in Tokyo?”

“Uh huh.” Kuina fell into step beside him as they headed for the way out. “Wanted to do it for the longest time. Plus, I wasn’t gonna walk into Zone-B all _cho-dasai_.”

“Your dad approve?”

Kuina pulled a face. “Not so much. But hey: it’s my hair.” They were outside now and she nodded towards Koshiro’s car, which was parked out front of the community centre. “We can dump this stuff over there.”

 

 

Once they’d deposited the bags of kit on the ground next to the car, Kuina regarded Zoro critically. “So... Not walked into any doors recently?”

Zoro gave a half-smile. “Nope.”

 “You have a good summer?”

“Pretty good.” Zoro shrugged.

“You still planning to go for ikkyu, end of October?”

“Yeah. And shodan three months after.”

 

 

Kuina raised an eyebrow. “Presume much?”

“I’m gonna pass ikkyu first time.” Zoro folded his arms.

“You planning to buy your own kit any time soon?” Kuina’s question came out sounding snarky: Zoro scowled.

“Yeah. I’m saving up for it now, I’ll have it before October.”

“Don’t buy the cheap stuff,” she advised him, as if he needed instructing. “It’s a waste of money. You need to spend a decent amount on bōgu, else it’s not going to protect you properly.”

“Gee, thanks for the tip,” Zoro replied, as sarcastically as he could manage.

“You need proper bōgu, the amount you get whacked in there,” she rejoined, with a shit-eating grin.

Zoro extended his middle finger eloquently up in her direction. “Gonna whack your ass, any day now.”

“Dream on, loser.”

 

 

Zoro elected not to bother continuing the verbal warfare. He hitched his own kendo bag onto his shoulder. “Whatever. See you next week.”

Kuina looked somewhat disappointed by the discontinuation of hostilities. As Zoro started to turn away, her voice followed him. “Hey. I bought _Kasumisou_ at the Akiakane gig. I’ll bring it in next week, you want to check it out.”

 Zoro glanced back at her: nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

 

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

 

Summer faded into autumn, heat giving way to greyer skies. Zoro’s life fell into a routine with highs and lows. Weekdays when he got day labouring jobs he worked at without thinking much: passing through the grind of early mornings and monotonous work with his mind set on other things. Thinking about kendo. Or about his next fight at Takenaka’s club.

The opportunity to fight came every two weeks, and Zoro turned up to just about every fight night... And most times, got an opportunity to get into the ring. His novelty value had worn off, the betting crowd now familiar with his face. That meant less people were betting on him to lose, which presumably meant Takenaka raking in less money off Zoro’s fights.

 

 

The club’s solution to this was a simple one, which Zoro hadn’t anticipated. Late September he turned up to fight and Shibata put him with someone he hadn’t seen at the club before, a Japanese guy named Ryuu. The fighter didn’t look anything out of the ordinary: a little taller than Zoro, with the hard build a lot of the fighters there had. When they both stepped into the ring, Ryuu had given Zoro a steady look, as if assessing the younger man. Before proceeding to knock the crap out of him.

It turned out Ryuu was a shit-hot Muay Thai fighter. Who landed hits on just about every part of Zoro’s body with a combination of punches, kicks and skilful use of his knees. Not to mention elbow-strikes. The latter being what finally took Zoro down: the hard shock of Ryuu’s elbow slamming into the side of his head sending him spinning down onto the floor and failing to get up for a while.

 

 

He eventually blinked the grey sparkling fuzz out of his vision to find himself sitting on a chair, propped crookedly upright. With a headache and a lack of short term memory that suggested things hadn’t gone well.

A blonde-haired guy he didn’t recognise bent down in his immediate vicinity, bringing himself into Zoro’s field of vision. “Eh, there you go. Back in the land of the living.” And let out a low chuckle.

“...Huh?” Zoro wondered what the fuck had happened. He tried to push himself off the chair and stand up: immediately the world rocked unsteadily underneath him.

“Whoa, just sit still for a moment, fella.” The guy in front of him took hold of Zoro’s shoulder, pushing him back into the chair. “You got K.O.’d good. Wait a few minutes before you start dancing about.”

 

 

Zoro frowned at the man, trying to work out what was going on. “...Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m the guy telling you to keep your ass sat on the chair till you can stand up without falling over.” The man smirked. “Dr Nick is what all the other assholes here call me.”

“Doctor?” Zoro’s head felt like it belonged to someone else. Someone with a habit of walking into low bridges. “Where the hell am I?”

Dr Nick regarded him amusedly. “My consulting room. Back of the club.”

Zoro stared at him. Then everything slotted back into his brain.

_Club. Fight. Ryuu. Elbow in the side of the head._

 

 

He felt it then: a steady throbbing ache in his temple. “...The fuck. I lose?”

The doctor, if that’s what he actually was, let out a derisive snort. “No, you won. In the universe where winning equals getting knocked cold and being carried out the ring. Yeah, diptard: you lost.”

Zoro looked around the space they were in. He was sitting on a plain wooden chair; over against the wall was an old medical couch with scuffed vinyl covering, and there was a table nearby with what looked like first aid supplies. There was a rank undertone in there, of body fluids and surgical alcohol. He let out a long breath. “Shit.”

 

 

“First time you bit it, huh?” The guy leaned in close, scanning Zoro’s face: studying his eyes. “Okay. Tell me your name.”

“Zoro Roronoa.”

“Remember anything from the last busy half hour or so?” The medic placed his fingers on Zoro’s head, turning it slightly one way, then the other. “Like, exactly where you are?”

“Takenaka’s club. Under Dimitri’s bar.”

“Ten out of ten. Remember the name of the guy you were fighting?”

“Ryuu.”

“Any memory of the fight itself?”

“Yeah. His elbow getting intimate with my face.” Zoro had had enough of this interrogation. His head was aching.

“Good sign.” Dr Nick gave him an ironic thumbs-up. “Might mean you’ve still got enough functioning brain cells to lead a meaningful life.” He held one finger up in front of Zoro’s face. “Touch your forefinger to mine; then touch your nose; then back to my finger.”

 

 

Zoro did so: the other man nodded, straightening up. “Okay. Feeling like you’re gonna puke anytime soon?”

“No.”

“Tell me the months of the year, in reverse order.”

Zoro scowled at him. “Go buy a fucking calendar.”

“Ah, aggressive behaviour: common side effect of head injury. Or in this case, probably just  down to the fact that you’re a shithead who got his ass kicked.” The medic shrugged. “Congratulations. You have a mild concussion. Go home, stay awake a few hours. If you start puking, falling over sideways or speaking in tongues, get your ass to an E.R. soonest and be real unspecific about exactly how you sustained your injury.” He moved to the table and picked up a bottle of sanitiser gel: squirted some into his hands, before rubbing it over them. “Have a nice day.”

 

 

Zoro stood up, slowly. The room didn’t tip sideways this time. “That’s it?”

“Unless you have a private healthcare plan, in which case why the fuck would you be doing this shit.” Dr Nick nodded towards a small wad of cash on the table. “Speaking of financial matters, there’s your earnings for tonight. Don’t spend it all at once.”

Picking up the money, Zoro counted it: fifty dollars. He looked up at the other man. “Wait up... Kazuo said losers got paid a hundred.”

Dr Nick gave him an ironic smile. “Medical fees.”

“No fucking way!” Zoro couldn’t believe it. He’d lost his fight, okay: but to also lose half his money to pay this asshole for waving a finger in front of his face was bogus.

“You want to keep a full pay check, next time try dodging,” the doctor suggested. Then he gestured towards the door with one thumb. “ ‘Bye now.”

 

 

Zoro had left the club and gone straight home. Still pissed at the shitty unfairness of it; and pissed at himself for losing. Fifty bucks for getting slugged upside the head, and winding up with a headache and foggy brain that took two days to clear.

The next time he’d showed at the club, Shibata had greeted him with a low chuckle. “Eh, back again?”

“Yeah.” Zoro had folded his arms and stared stonily at the fat man.

Shibata had smiled at him. “Oho, sulking because you got beat? That’s the way it goes, _gaki_. Can’t win every time.”

“Not when you put me up against some freak Muay Thai ninja.” Zoro was pretty sure that match hadn’t been randomly arranged. “That guy Ryuu didn’t just wander in here.”

“Sure he did.” Shibata raised his eyebrows. “We get guys passing through here all the time. Fight one fight, then go on their way. Try their luck elsewhere. Other clubs. Other cities. Some of them make a nice living at it.”

“You stuck me in the ring with a pro.” Zoro was even more pissed now.

“You walk in here of your own free will. You want to fight, we’ll set you up with a fight.” Shibata regarded him with an unimpressed look. “Don’t come whining because you lost. You’ll get more fights here. Now they know you can lose, people will bet more money. That’s the way it works.”

 

 

It was logical. And really fucking annoying. And more than that: it meant that from that point onward, every time Zoro went to the club he had no idea what lay ahead. An opponent he could take, or someone with more fighting experience. Weirdly, it didn’t take away from the buzz: it added to it. He never knew until he was in the ring with his opponent, if that night he was going to be walking away... or punched flat.

Most of the time it was the former, but the possibility that Zoro might be up against another Ryuu sharpened the edges of each fight. Made him more focussed: moving quicker, hitting harder, fighting dirtier. Watching and learning, every time; from his own fights, and from seeing others. Stepping into the ring and feeling the world slide into hard focus. That surge of release, of not having to think about anything except taking the other man down. The wild flood of exultation that ran through him when he was the one left standing.

 

 

“Roronoa _Oni!”_  One night he heard it, a yell from the crowd as he stood back from the fighter he’d just brought down onto the floor.

_Demon Roronoa._

He’d turned his head to look, but couldn’t make out who had shouted. Usually he never looked at the audience, baying and cheering at whoever they’d pinned their money on: they stayed a blur of faces and raised fists, outside the bright fluorescents that lit the ring.

Afterwards when he’d gone to get his money, Kazuo had been sitting at the table with Shibata. As Zoro had reached for the notes, Kazuo had smiled at him. The way he always smiled: with his mouth, but not his eyes. “Getting yourself a fan club, Roronoa.” His smile widened a little. “Roronoa _Oni_.”

Something about the way the other man said it told Zoro who the nickname had maybe come from. “Those assholes can call me what the fuck they like.” He picked up his two hundred dollars from the table. “Long as I get paid.”

Kazuo nodded. “You got blood on your shirt.”

“Not mine.” Zoro turned away.

 

 

 

 

 

The fights were technicolour real, nights maxed out on adrenaline and the high of winning. And almost always, Zoro scored some meth afterwards. Did a line or two to keep the buzz going through the night. Sometimes into the next day and night too, because when he was amped everything felt way better. And okay, sure, the comedown could be a bitch, even when he popped a Xannie to take the edge off: but getting up for work on Monday morning was a bitch anyway, so he might as well enjoy the weekend while he could.

Through the week the drug hangover wore off, as did the after-effects of any hits he’d taken in the club. Even the few times he lost, he was lucky: he didn’t limp away with anything worse than that first time with Ryuu. By the following Friday he was always recovered enough to go to kendo class.

And Zoro’s stash of money kept growing, until in early October he was able to buy the kendo gear he’d been aiming at. Decent quality bōgu and a couple of shinai; keikogi and hakama, two sets. One for practice and one for grading and competing. And at the end of October, just before Halloween, he passed ikkyu. Koshiro seemed pleased with Zoro’s progress, his sensei agreeing that Zoro could aim to pass shōdan in February. So that was another potential high in the future.

 

 

In the immediate present, however, there was an issue that Zoro needed to deal with. Namely, the fact that his squatted room in the projects now housed nearly eight hundred bucks’ worth of kendo gear. Not to mention the cash Zoro kept hidden under a floorboard, and whatever drugs he had stashed. All of which he really didn’t want to come home from work one day to find had been ripped off, by some motherfucker with a habit and a crowbar.

Between the fights and his day labouring job, for the first time Zoro actually had enough cash to maybe rent a place, if he could find somewhere cheap. Somewhere with a door he could lock, and heat in the winter time. Which would feel like a palace compared to where he lived now.

The problem though would be the same as he had when looking for work. A total lack of official documentation, like pay slips or references. Zoro thought about it for a while, until he came up with one possible solution: perhaps try asking Koshiro if he would write him a reference.

 

 

Before asking Koshiro directly, Zoro elected to sound Kuina out; to see if she had a sense of how her father would react.

“A reference?” Kuina raised an eyebrow at him. They were standing by Koshiro’s car after practice, having carried the bags of spare kendo gear out there. This had kind of become a regular thing, Zoro helping out after class. “For a job?”

“No. To show a landlord.”

“You’re moving?”

“Yeah. That’s the plan. If I can find a place.”

 

 

She gave him a considering look. “You haven’t got somewhere lined up?”

“Not yet.”

“Hmm.” She dug into her hoodie pocket, and took out her cell phone. “I know this guy, he plays in a band... He said he was moving out of his place. Want me to see if it’s available? I mean, it won’t be anything great: he’s a pig, you’ll probably have to spend a week nuking it with Raid to clear out all the ‘roaches attracted by the leftover takeout he leaves lying about. But it’ll be cheap rent. If that’s what you’re looking for.”

Zoro gave a half smile. “Yeah. Cheap is good.”

“Okay then.” Kuina brought up her contacts, and hit dial. Turning slightly away, she waited a moment, holding her phone to her ear... Then spoke into it. “Eh, Yuichi: it’s me. You okay to talk?” A pause, then: “I woke you up? Your lazy ass is still in bed, _aho?_ It’s evening, in case you hadn’t noticed!”

Standing beside her, Zoro found himself smiling wryly. Kuina evidently spoke to everyone she knew with the same lack of social niceties that she used with him.

“Okay, whatever.” Kuina was still speaking to her luckless musician friend on the other end of the phone. “Need to ask you a favour. You still living in that garbage pit of an apartment?” Her face fell slightly as she listened to the reply. “You already moved out? When?” Another pause for her to hear the reply. “Only a couple of days ago? So the place is still up for rent?”

 

 

Zoro waited while Kuina listened some more, nodding from time to time, and asking more questions. Then she hung up and put her phone back in her pocket, before looking at him. “Okay. Yuichi says his old place hasn’t been rented out again yet, as far as he knows... His official moving-out date was next week, but he cleared out early. Moved in with his girlfriend.” Kuina pulled a face. “Lucky her.”

“What’s the rent?” That was going to be the vital question, as far as Zoro was concerned.

“Five hundred a month. It’s cheap ‘cos it’s really small, it’s only a studio apartment. You interested?”

“Yeah.” Zoro thought he could manage five hundred, between his day labouring work and fighting at Takenaka’s club.

“Cool. Well, Yuichi gave me the address, and the landlord’s number... He said just call the guy and you should be able to go take a look.”

Zoro took out his own cell phone now. “Okay. Let’s have it.”

 

 

Kuina dictated the address and telephone number to him, and Zoro stored them on his phone. “I’ll call the guy tonight.”

“Good idea. Low rent place like that probably won’t stand empty long. Even if it’s kind of skanky.”

Zoro raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well... Where I live now isn’t exactly a luxury condo.”

“You live in this neighbourhood, right?”

Hesitating a moment before he answered, Zoro decided there was no reason to lie about it. “I used to. A while back.”

“How come you moved out?”

That was a harder question to respond truthfully too. “No particular reason.”

“So where’s your family live now?”

 

 

It was weird the way Kuina assumed he had family back at home somewhere. But then, Zoro thought, most people did have family in some form or other. “I got my own place.”

“Oh.” Kuina regarded him. “I wondered...” She shook her head slightly. “That day. When you showed up here looking like you’d been on the wrong end of losing an argument. I wondered if it had been someone you knew, did that to you.”

“Yeah. I remember you asking.” Zoro shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to go down this particular conversational alleyway again. “It wasn’t.”

“You told me.” Kuina looked at him for a few moments longer... Then turned her head away, gazing into the distance. “I asked because I had a friend that happened to. She got knocked about. Like, by her dad. She’d show up at school and skip gym class for a couple of weeks, so no-one would see the bruises.”

 

 

Zoro wasn’t sure what to say. “Your friend... She’s okay now?”

“Yeah. She left home. Went away.” Kuina let out a slow breath. “Left the city. She messaged me: said she was doing okay, where she is now. Her family don’t know where she is, which is good.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Then Kuina seemed to retrieve her thoughts from where they’d gone, bringing her gaze back to Zoro. “Family can be a pain in the ass.”

Zoro thought of his uncle. “Fuck, yeah.”

“I’m lucky. _Chichi_ is pretty cool, most of the time. Well, except he hates  this,” she gestured at her hair. “Wonder how he’s gonna react to me getting my nose pierced.” Her eyes took on a wicked glint. “And when I get a tattoo.”

“You’re getting a tatt?”

“Uh huh. Working on a design for one. Japanese blackwork style.”

“Where you plan on having it?”

“My lower back.”

Zoro let out a snort. “Your dad’ll shit.”

“Probably.” Kuina’s mouth set into a determined line. “But I’m getting one anyway.”

 

 

No surprise there. Zoro couldn’t really imagine Kuina not going after something she’d made her mind up to do. “How about the rest of your family?”

“They’re in Tokyo, so who cares.” Kuina shrugged. “And everyone there is totally down on people with tattoos, anyway. It’s stupid.”

Zoro thought of some of the guys he’d seen at Takenaka’s club, some of whom had Japanese _irezumi_ on their arms and bodies. “Yeah... You know why that is, right?”

Kuina rolled her eyes. “Because it used to be a yakuza thing. But not any more. All kinds of people get tattoos, not just lowlifes like that.”

 

 

 _\- Lowlifes like that._ Zoro wondered if he would fall into that category, if Kuina knew where he went twice a month. “I guess.”

Kuina looked at him, a smile turning up one corner of her mouth. “Why? You thinking of getting one too?”

“No.” Spending money on getting a tattoo was the last thing on Zoro’s mind.

“They can look really cool.”

“Or totally fucking stupid.”

“Well yeah, if you go for the stars and angel wings variety.” She tipped her head a little on one side. “You ought to do something different. Half the time you show up here, you look like a bum.”

“Fuck you very much.” Zoro didn’t want fashion tips.

“You could dye your hair.” Kuina inspected his hair critically. “Have to bleach it first, though.”

“No way.”

“I could do it for you, if you want. It’d look great.”

“What part of ‘No way’ are you not understanding?”

Kuina laughed. “You are such a wuss.” And her voice contained just enough of a challenge.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Japanese translation notes:  
> dou dai? = how's it going? / whassup?  
> hentai = sexually perverted  
> yarou = jerk / bastard (originally 'young man')  
> kusottare = piece of shit / shithead (literally 'shit drip')  
> che = damn (exclamation with no direct translation)  
> bakayarou = total fuckwit  
> chichi = my dad  
> debu = fatso  
> kusogaki = punk / shitty brat  
> chibi = shrimp / squirt  
> kumicho = literally 'head of family': honorific for yakuza boss  
> daiginjo = premium grade sake  
> shinmai = newcomer (literally 'new rice')  
> cho-dasai = uncool / lame  
> irezumi = traditional Japanese tattoos (usually associated with yakuza and criminals)


	5. I Wanna Do Bad Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bayani released the smoke he’d been holding in. Still watching Zoro. “Your girlfriend know you fight?”
> 
> That made it easy. “Don’t have a girlfriend.”
> 
> The Filipino smiled. Reached unhurriedly out as if he was going to take the joint from Zoro’s hand... And instead placed one hand on the wall. Watching Zoro, with those steady dark eyes.

 

* * *

 

_I don't know who you think you are_  
_But before the night is through_  
_I wanna do bad things with you_  
_I wanna do real bad things with you_

_\- Jace Everett_

* * *

 

 

The clientele at Takenaka’s fight club might have made some New Year’s resolutions, but cutting down on gambling evidently wasn’t one of them. The place was packed, as usual.

Zoro was drinking a beer, sat where he habitually did: at a table near a wall, way back from the ring where the fights took place. There was less crowd and noise here, which suited him.

He’d won his fight that night: a hard tussle with a Latvian who mainly relied on punching. Zoro used his fists a lot too, but he had also picked up some moves from watching other fighters here. Krav Maga, Taekwondo... Even Muay Thai, after his experience at the hands of Ryuu. Not just from watching, either. A few of the fighters frequented a gym in the same neighbourhood as Dimitri’s, and Zoro had begun dropping in there a couple of nights a week to spar and build up his techniques.

He still got beaten, every now and then. But he won the majority of his fights. Which meant he was able to put a little money by, even with having to pay rent on the tiny studio apartment he lived in now.

 

 

A voice broke into his thoughts. “Oi, Roronoa. Liked the way you finished off that _rosuke_. Impressed the paying customers, too.”

Zoro looked up, to see Kazuo standing there. He picked up his beer and took a swallow. “Thanks.”

Kazuo let out a short laugh. “Really getting yourself a following... _oni_.”

Resting one arm on the back of his chair, Zoro met the other man’s gaze. “Yeah; that’s why I do this. To build up a fan club.”

“Hn.” Kazuo grunted, his dark eyes steady on the youth. “You don’t change. Still a mouthy fuck.” His gaze lifted a little. “But you’re trying out a new look, _ne?”_ A mocking smile came onto the enforcer’s face. “For the festive season.”

Zoro shrugged. Not giving two fucks for Kazuo’s opinion.

The other man gestured at Zoro’s green-dyed hair. “Makes you stand out. Like a piece of walking bonsai.”

 

 

The crowd noise rose, in the centre of the room. Kazuo glanced over his shoulder. “Next bout’s starting any minute.” He nodded towards the ring. “Filipino guy, from out of town. Fights Sanshou style.” He looked over towards where the betting table was. “Gonna see what kind of money people are laying down for this one.” He gave Zoro a parting nod. “Later, _gaki_.”

Zoro made no reply. Watched Kazuo push through the crowd, heading to where he could check how his boss’s earnings were doing so far that night.

Another swell of sound came from ringside. Zoro looked over.

_Sanshou style?_

He had heard of it: a Chinese martial art, which was big in Asia the way MMA was here.

_Worth checking out._

Picking up his beer, Zoro got up and pushed his way through the crowd.

 

 

When he got to the ring he managed to get a good view, partly by virtue of being recognised by customers as one of the club’s regular fighters. In the open space Shibata was standing between two men: a shaven-headed Mestizo guy Zoro recognised from previous club nights, and the younger Filipino opponent.

Shibata raised his voice. “Our fourth bout tonight: returning we have Da Silva, up against guest fighter, Bayani!” He stepped out of the ring, leaving the two men circling each other warily.

Zoro studied the way both fighters moved, considering the possible outcome. Da Silva was broad-chested, muscles bulky beneath the tattoos that covered his shoulders and arms; but although Bayani was slighter in build he seemed light on his feet. The Filipino’s eyes followed his opponent intently, serious under dark brows.

When Da Silva came in for an attack Bayani moved incredibly swiftly, blocking the Mestizo’s strike and retaliating with a kick to the other man’s knee, before following through with a punch to the head.

 

 

Both fighters feinted and circled for a couple of minutes, exchanging blows – then Bayani suddenly pivoted on his foot and delivered a lightning-quick reverse roundhouse kick that slammed into Da Silva’s chest and sent the fighter staggering back almost out of the ring. Da Silva came back fighting, but Bayani took any hits with apparent indifference: keeping moving, targeting his opponent with fast punches and kicking strikes that almost always found their mark.

The crowd were yelling now, urging on the action. Da Silva took a couple of hits to the knee that seemed to slow him down: and then suddenly Bayani got him in a clinch and proceeded to hammer home blows to his chest and head until one sent Da Silva sprawling onto the floor... Where he stayed.

The roar of approval from the onlookers didn’t mute until Shibata got back into the ring and confirmed the result. “Bayani wins this bout! Don’t forget to place your bets for our next fight.”

 

 

Bayani gave his prone defeated opponent a single look, before wiping his forearm across his sweating face. He wasn’t smiling: his expression still held that sombre look of concentration he’d borne throughout the fight, dark eyes steady under downward-sloping brows.

Then his gaze lifted, drifting across the watching crowd. And met Zoro’s. Those intent eyes holding his just for a moment.

Then the crowd shifted, blocking their line of view for a second. When Zoro could see the ring again, Bayani had left the space.

 

 

Zoro turned away. He headed for the bar to get another beer, having finished the bottle he’d been holding. There were a lot of people trying to buy drinks, in the immediate aftermath of the fight: standing there and waiting for a gap to open up was the only strategy that worked. Zoro did that, watching customers jostle and shout their orders to the two hard-faced bar staff who worked their way steadily through the demands being hurled at them.

An opening of sorts appeared: a guy in a designer suit edged away, cradling a drink in each hand. Zoro stepped in and got his beer, before pushing his way out again. He looked towards the back of the room, trying to see if the table he’d been sitting at by the wall was still free.

 

 

“Good fight.” The words made Zoro look round. Beside him stood Bayani, the Filipino who’d just demolished Da Silva in the ring. The other fighter nodded at him. “Good fight,” he repeated, in voice which carried just an edge of an accent. Zoro wasn’t sure if Bayani was talking about himself, but the Filipino’s next words clarified things. “I watched you win, earlier.”

“Uh, yeah?” Zoro wasn’t used to people here handing out compliments. He felt he maybe ought to reciprocate in some way. “I watched your fight, too. You took Da Silva down fast.”

Bayani’s mouth lifted just slightly into a smile. His eyes lightened too: some of the seriousness falling away. “I saw you ringside.” One corner of his mouth lifted further. “You’re not easy to miss.”

 

 

Zoro knew what that meant. He gave Bayani an answering wry grin. “Yeah. People have been giving me shit about this dye job all night.”

Bayani regarded Zoro’s hair with a raised eyebrow. “You didn’t expect that to happen?”

“I don’t give a fuck.” Zoro shrugged. “Who cares what the assholes in here think.”

This time Bayani smiled wider. “The assholes who make bets, so we can walk away with their money?”

“Them, or the bigger assholes who run this place.” Zoro included Kazuo and Takenaka in that description, although he wasn’t stupid enough to say their names out loud. You never knew who was listening in there.

 

 

Bayani was also holding a beer: he gestured with it towards the one in Zoro’s hand. “Fighting is thirsty work. But I don’t much want to stick around here. Could use some fresh air.”

Zoro gestured with his head towards the exit. “There’s a back alley alongside Dimitri’s you can hang out in. The guy here on the door’ll let you back in, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Bayani looked towards the exit too, and nodded. Then his eyes came back to Zoro. “Okay to smoke out there?”

 

 

Zoro knew he didn’t mean cigarettes. “Yeah, no-one’ll give you any shit.”

The Filipino fighter rubbed his thumb against his lower lip. “...You want to take a smoke break too?”

Zoro found himself suddenly watching the way the thumb traced over the other man’s mouth. Noticing the finely-drawn bow shape, slightly darker than the tan skin of his face; like a faded bruise. He lifted his eyes back up to meet the Filipino’s. “Yeah.”

Once again, Bayani smiled.

 

 

It was late: there were few customers left in Dimitri’s, and no-one gave the two fighters a second glance as they walked through the bar and out onto the street. Zoro led the way, turning into the secluded alley that ran down the bar’s flank; stopping when they were out of sight from the street, partly sheltered by a couple of dumpsters. “This’ll be okay. The only people who come down here are bar staff, or other guys from the club.”

Bayani looked around the space, his quick dark eyes taking it all in, then nodded. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out what he needed: rolled a joint quickly and smoothly, before lighting up. After a few tokes he passed it to Zoro, who took a hit on it.

 

 

The Filipino let smoke drift slowly out of his nose and mouth, before nodding towards the alley entrance. “You fight here a lot?”

Zoro nodded, also exhaling slowly. “Yeah. Every couple of weeks, pretty much.”

“You work for Takenaka?”

“Fuck, no.” This came out harder than Zoro had meant it to: he saw Bayani’s eyes fix on him. “I just come here to fight. For the money. I don’t have anything to do with whatever other shit Takenaka’s into.”

Bayani nodded. “That’s smart.”

“How about you?” Zoro found himself wanting to know. “You plan on fighting here again next time?”

The Filipino shook his head. “Just passing through.”

 

 

They were both quiet for a few moments then, passing the joint back and forth. Zoro found himself looking covertly at the other fighter, trying not to be obvious. At the spread of Bayani’s shoulders under his jacket. The way his eyes closed when he took a pull on the joint, underneath the sloping curve of those dark brows.

Then Bayani looked up and met Zoro’s gaze, just like he had in the ring. His fingers lifted to his mouth; he took a pull on the joint, then held it out to Zoro. Brown eyes looking black in the dim light of the alley.

Zoro took the joint. Felt the brush of the other man’s fingers. And a spark jump across his gut, like lightning arcing to earth. Put the joint into his own mouth. Tasting it. And some part of him wondered if he could taste the other man on it too.

 

 

Bayani released the smoke he’d been holding in. Still watching Zoro. “Your girlfriend know you fight?”

That made it easy. “Don’t have a girlfriend.”

The Filipino smiled. Reached unhurriedly out as if he was going to take the joint from Zoro’s hand... And instead placed one hand on the wall. Watching Zoro, with those steady dark eyes.

 

 

Zoro let it happen. Feeling the way the spark jolted across his gut again: making heat run downwards. Didn’t move: just stood there with his back against the alley wall, meeting the other man’s gaze.

Bayani leaned further forward, bringing his head close. Paused, just for a second, eyes studying Zoro’s face. Assessing.

Then Bayani bent his head closer still and his mouth met Zoro’s.

It was so overwhelming Zoro stopped breathing. Feeling the strangeness, the shock revving his heart against his ribs. And then right behind that a fierce surge of heat and need, that made him lift a hand and grip Bayani’s side, pulling the other man in.

The Filipino took this as his cue to kiss Zoro harder, pushing into his mouth. Leaning his body right in so that the two of them were pressed up against each other, the wall still at Zoro’s back. It went on for long seconds and then Bayani broke it, lifting his head away; and Zoro was breathing hard with his mouth open and looking back at him.

 

 

Bayani gave him that smile again, studying Zoro’s face. Pushed himself upright, and took the joint from Zoro’s fingers. Had a hit on it, before speaking again. “Hm... Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Zoro had to swallow before he could answer. “...Yeah.”

Bayani gestured with his head towards the street. “I’m staying at a friend’s place. He’s out of town right now.” He offered the joint back to Zoro. “It’s not far.”

 

 

It took them maybe twenty minutes to walk to the apartment. And the whole way Zoro was internally trying to lash down the storm of feelings that were building inside him.

He wanted this. _Fuck,_ he wanted this so bad. From the moment back there in the club when he’d watched Bayani’s thumb rub slowly against the arc of his lip, he’d wanted it. And being kissed in the alleyway so hard he forgot to breathe had hit him like backdraft, so that all he wanted was to be somewhere he could be kissed like that again. As soon as fucking possible. He wanted to put his hands on the other man’s body, feel the hard muscle beneath his fingers, and kiss him back.

So he was walking alongside Bayani, thinking about that. And simultaneously feeling more fucking scared than he had in over two years.

 

 

_I’m gonna sleep with a guy._

 

 

All those locker room fantasies, all that wishful thinking... Now it was actually going to _happen_. He was going to have sex with another guy. Going to get fucked by another guy.

Which was where the anxiety coiling in his guts kicked in. Because he didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Not as in the actual mechanics of it: he knew what happened, he’d checked out gay porn. But Zoro had never slept with a guy before: so what if he did something wrong? What if he was shit at it?

 

 

 

 

 

When they got to the apartment Bayani let them inside, switching on the light as they went in. The place was simply furnished, and smelled faintly of incense. The Filipino fighter gave Zoro a glance over his shoulder, before gesturing onwards with his head, walking further into the apartment.

The bedroom had a double bed, with a grey quilt. Bayani took off his jacket and slung it on a nearby chair, before turning to look at Zoro. His gaze moved over him as he walked towards the younger man: then he reached up with one hand to the back of the youth’s neck and pulled him in. As if they were fighting in slow motion.

Bayani’s hand was warm on Zoro’s skin, breath warm on his face, mouth warm and insistent as it pushed his lips apart. The two of them kissing: and Zoro felt heat flow through him again.

Another hand slid onto his hip, tugged him in closer. Zoro didn’t know exactly what to do but found himself doing it anyway. Pressing against the other man, need and want guiding his body against Bayani’s answering arousal. Still kissing and pushing together, feeling himself gone hard and rubbing against the other man, feeling Bayani hard through his pants too.

 

 

The Filipino made a low sound in his throat, before pausing their kiss. Drawing back a half step and taking hold of the bottom of Zoro’s hoodie and t-shirt: pulling them up and off; then stripping off his own shirt, before drawing them back together and kissing Zoro again. Smooth warm skin against Zoro’s own, hard definition of muscle and bone and sinew. And hands coming down to Zoro’s pants, unfastening them and tugging them down over his hips.

A moment later they were both down to nothing but skin, and Bayani wrapped his hand around Zoro’s cock and his own and moved against them together, kissing him hard again. Zoro shivered and felt his fingers curl, where they gripped the other man’s hips. Feeling like his legs were going to give way.

 

 

Bayani stroked his grip back and forth, steadily, firmly, for a while. His mouth exploring Zoro’s; lips travelling from there to the younger fighter’s neck, tongue exploring the skin. Pressing down hard; making him catch his breath.

At last Bayani drew back, just a little. Let his hand still, except for the tip of his thumb, which he circled gently against the head of Zoro’s cock before letting go. Dark eyes finding Zoro’s. “I top.”

Zoro knew what that meant. Let out a single unsteady breath. “...Okay.”

Bayani’s eyes studied his. “Sure?”

“Yeah.” There was no way in hell Zoro was backing out now.

The Filipino gazed at him. Then he stepped back towards the bed, his hand finding Zoro’s wrist and pulling the younger man with him.

 

 

Zoro followed Bayani, because keeping moving was the only way he could do this. Letting himself be tugged downwards; lying on his back with the other fighter raising himself on his arms above him, kissing him again. One hand closing back around Zoro’s cock, stroking it harder now. Then fingers brushing lower, between his legs.

Zoro couldn’t help it: a small jolt ran through him. Bayani’s head rose, his lips lifting away. He looked at Zoro’s face: the dark brows drew together, just a little. Then he shifted slightly, resting on his elbows. “Sure you’re okay with this?”

Working at breathing slowly, Zoro nodded.

Bayani’s hand moved slightly, fingers brushing against that place again. Brown eyes watching Zoro’s face. “Not bareback. I don’t take risks.” Fingertip stroking, circling against sensitive skin.

 

 

Zoro knew what that meant, too. And felt the tension in the pit of his stomach release, just a little.

Bayani seemed to see something change in his face. The Filipino’s expression changed too, brows lifting. “Tell me what you like.”

That was an unanswerable question. But Zoro did his best. “Everything so far.”

The other man’s eyes looked down into his. And then Bayani let out a breath. Before rolling to one side, his hand sliding up from between Zoro’s legs and coming to rest on his stomach.

 

 

Zoro felt the knot in his guts twist tight again. “What’re you - ”

“You haven’t done this before.” Bayani regarded him closely. Not sounding pissed off, or impatient. Just as if he was making a casual observation.

“Yeah - I have.” Zoro felt a different heat washing over him now: could feel the blood starting to burn in his face.

“No.” Bayani gave a shake of his head.

 

 

This was going wrong, in the worst way. Zoro took a breath. “I want to fuck.”

Bayani’s face broke into a smile, before the Filipino let out a soft laugh. “And I want to fuck you. But we need to go a little slower, for your first time.”

Zoro wasn’t sure what that meant. “I’m okay with you topping.”

“You ever done it to yourself?” At Zoro’s look, Bayani elaborated. “Tried it out with your fingers?”

 

 

This time Zoro felt the blush spread clear down into his neck and chest. “...Uh. Yeah.”

Bayani gave him that slow quirk of a smile. “Liked it?”

“...Mhm.” Embarrassment was making Zoro virtually non-verbal.

 

 

The Filipino let out a quiet chuckle. Before letting his thumb move slightly where it rested against Zoro’s stomach: stroking slowly back and forth against the skin just below his navel. “So far, so good.”

Zoro took a breath, feeling the other man’s hand start to drift downwards again. Fingertips trailing down his abs: into the crease of his thigh. Then curling around his cock again, as Bayani rose up on his elbow and rolled over him, finding Zoro’s mouth with his own.

Slowly the tension in his stomach melted away. Self consciousness subsiding under the flood of sensations wherever Bayani touched him: with his hands, his lips, his tongue. Their bodies pressing together, the Filipino above him, bringing both their cocks into his hand and stroking them together in a steady rhythm until Zoro felt his hips start to respond to it. Wanting to move, to push up into the warm just-tight-enough grip.

And then suddenly it was overwhelming and Zoro found himself breathing hard and wanting to pull back, to stop himself from reaching that place too soon: even as his body moved urgently against the man above him, riding the achingly good feeling of heat and friction and another cock against his own and a mouth on his. And then everything broke apart and he was cumming, whiteout lightning strike through his body, shuddering and groaning and feeling the weight and the warmth and the taste of the other body above his.

 

 

When Zoro could open his eyes again, Bayani was looking down at him and there was warm wet slickness where their bellies touched. And his heart was still thudding and he could feel sweat sticking him to the covers under his back, the bone-sweet tingling aftershocks of his release echoing through him.

Then with a returning self consciousness, the thought: _Fuck – I came too quick._

Zoro looked up into the face above his, and said the only thing he could think of. “Uh, sorry - ”

 

 

Bayani’s brows pulled down a little. “What for?”

“I didn’t mean to. Uh...” Zoro didn’t know it was possible to feel so good and so bad at the same time. “That quick...”

The Filipino’s face cleared, then he let out a quiet laugh. “No problem.” He bent his head down and kissed Zoro on the mouth, before lifting away again and gazing at the younger man. “Next time it’ll last longer.” He rolled sideways, lying on his side with one hand coming to rest on Zoro’s stomach.

 

 

Zoro adjusted his world view. And focussed on the slow stroke of the other man’s hand on his skin.

After a few minutes the hand on his belly moved up to his chest, fingers brushing and pinching one of his nipples; then the other. Little darts of heat zagged through him. Bayani shifted beside him on the bed, leaning his head closer to run his tongue over Zoro’s shoulder; along his collar bone; up his neck. Placing soft bites there, teasing with his tongue, while his hand moved lower.

Zoro felt himself get hard again. And turned his head, bringing his own hand to Bayani’s face, drawing the other man to where he could kiss him, taste his mouth.

 

 

The Filipino went along with this for a while... Then drew away, his head dropping to Zoro’s chest. Finding Zoro’s nipples like he had with his strong fingers, closing his teeth on the sensitive flesh, tonguing it hard. And then continuing southwards down Zoro’s body.

Zoro felt his heart start to rev up again, hardly having time to think about what was about to happen before the other man went down on him and he pulled in an unsteady breath.

_Oh fuck_

Warm wet pressure caressing his cock. Hands spreading his knees further apart, then fingers gripping his cock too, sliding up and then down, and all the time Bayani’s mouth working against him, taking him in.

 

 

Zoro’s brain quit doing anything except tuning in to every sensation that was flooding through his body. His eyes shut; each unsteady breath pulled in, shivered out. He felt like he could do this forever.

Then Bayani’s fingers brushed against his ass, fingertip sliding against the sensitive ring of muscle. Rested there.

Zoro opened his eyes. And Bayani was looking up at him. Tongue moving insistently against the underside of the head of Zoro’s cock. Watching him.

 

 

Apprehension tightened the muscles of Zoro’s stomach. But he wanted this. Wanted all of it.

 

 

When Bayani first slid a lube-slick finger into him, Zoro breathed in and felt the breath catch in his chest and hold there. And when the other man pushed further and Zoro felt his muscles tighten he had to make himself let the breath out.

The pain eased, after the first few seconds. As Zoro adjusted; breathed shallowly in and out and focussed on the thought: _I want this._

Bayani didn’t rush things. Took time to go deliberately slow, his mouth and other hand working on Zoro’s cock. Bringing a second finger to scissor and stretch and curl, pushing deeper than Zoro had ever done to himself, suddenly finding a place that jolted heat and pleasure up through him and made him gasp.

Three fingers.

 

 

Then the bed shifted and Bayani was bringing himself up over Zoro, finding his mouth and kissing him hard: biting at his lower lip. One hand travelling up his side, the other settling on his hip. Dark eyes meeting his. “...Turn over.”

Zoro rolled onto his stomach: felt the other man’s arm snake under him and pull gently but firmly, lifting him onto all fours. Heard the crackle and rip of a condom wrapper torn open. Then a few seconds later, Bayani’s hand grip his hip and the slow pressure of his cock pressing against him. Into him.

_Unh –_

It hurt. Not bad but enough that Zoro found his hands clenching on the bedcovers, an involuntary breath pulling in.

Bayani stopped moving. His hand on Zoro’s hip shifted slightly; stroking against his skin.

 

 

Gradually the pain eased. Zoro made his hands uncurl, breathing shallowly. He felt Bayani pull out; pause, then slowly push back in, just a little. Hold still again, before repeating the movement; a little deeper this time. Again. Each time waiting a few seconds for Zoro to adjust; each time moving in a little further. Until at last Bayani slid in deep and Zoro felt the other man settle against him. The warm ghost of breath against his back, between his shoulder blades: then a low murmur. “...Okay?”

“...Uh huh...” Zoro could feel sweat on his skin. His arms braced, holding himself up. But the raw burn had faded. Become something else.

Bayani’s arms moved, coming forward and propping on the bed, just in front of Zoro’s hips. Pulling back against his thighs, just enough to draw him closer still. The Filipino’s voice sounded quietly again. “Ah... That’s good.” Lips grazed the back of Zoro’s neck; tongue tasting his skin. “You feel good.”

 

 

It did things to Zoro’s stomach. Good things. He felt the knots inside him slacken: release. And they didn’t come back when Bayani pulled out a little, then slowly thrust back in. Those strong arms keeping Zoro in place as the other man moved, beginning a rhythm that was unhurried, deliberate. Going deeper with each tilt of his hips.

Zoro let himself feel it. Feel himself opening up, letting go. Everything focusing down, on the sensations filling his body. The other man filling his body.

And then Bayani thrust in and hit that place he’d touched with his fingers and Zoro’s world spun off its axis.

 

 

He heard himself let out a noise, hands clenching on the bedclothes again. And again.

_Yes yes yes     Fuck yes_

Bayani’s body moved more strongly against him, starting to speed up. Hips moving hard against his ass, cock pushing deep into him, driving pulses of fierce pleasure through him. Sweat pooling in the small of Zoro’s back and his wrists starting to ache and his arms shaking.

 

 

A hand reached out and touched Zoro’s arm, sliding down towards his hand. Bayani’s voice came again, guiding. “Touch yourself.”

Zoro found he could shift his weight onto his right arm, keeping himself supported: take hold of his cock with his other hand and begin to stroke, fingers curled.

“That’s right.” The other man tightened his arms against Zoro’s hips: started to fuck him harder, faster.

 

 

_Want this    Need this_

 

 

And then everything dissolved into heat and Zoro came so hard he yelled, vision going white and the world going away.

As he shuddered back to reality he felt Bayani still moving into him, thrusting hard: then the other man jolted and let out a groan, pulling Zoro tight against him.

After a few seconds the arms pinning Zoro’s hips slackened and he felt Bayani relax forward over him, the other man’s chest pressing against his back. A moment later, Bayani’s arm lifted and wrapped round his body.

 

 

 

 

 

Afterwards the room was quiet. They lay side by side in the bed, Bayani skinning up another joint, which they passed between them. Zoro already felt blown high: the weed making him so relaxed he felt almost boneless.

Bayani passed the joint and let out a slow stream of smoke escape his mouth, watching it ascend. Then said, “I think there’s some beer in the fridge. If you want to celebrate popping your cherry.”

Zoro almost swallowed smoke the wrong way, but managed not to choke on it. When he was sure he could talk without coughing, he responded, “This is okay.” And lifted the hand holding the joint.

 

 

There was a minute more of quiet. At last Zoro attempted to put into words what he was thinking. “Uh, was it...” And dried up.

Bayani looked at him. That slight smile softening those serious brows. “I had a good time. You too?”

“Yeah.” That was easier to say.

“People talk like it’s such a big deal. First time.” Bayani took the joint as Zoro held it out to him. “But, you know: maybe it’s good. Maybe it isn’t. Fucking is like fighting. Everyone knows the basics, but you learn as you go.”

 

 

Zoro thought about it. And decided he was going to try to get plenty of opportunities to learn. “You ever... do this before?” Bayani lifted an eyebrow, and Zoro hastened to clarify what he meant. “Hook up with someone - after fighting.”

“Once or twice.” Bayani drew in smoke, his eyes narrowing.

“Is it obvious? That I’m, uh, into guys?” This was a possibility that had been worrying Zoro.

“Not to people who aren’t.” Bayani looked at him. “You think someone at the club knows?”

“No.” Zoro said this emphatically.

“That’s good. Make sure they don’t find out.” The Filipino gave a small shake of his head. “Unless you want to find yourself fighting for your life in that ring.”

Zoro nodded. “You ever have any trouble... like that?”

Bayani took another hit on the joint, burning it down to his fingertips. Then crushed it out in the ashtray next to the bed. “Not if I keep moving on.”

 

 

That sank in slowly. Zoro had forgotten this: that Bayani had said he was just passing through. “You plan on moving on soon?”

“In a few days’ time. Once I’ve decided where to go next.”

A flat feeling descended over Zoro, taking some of the afterglow. “You don’t know where you’re going?”

Bayani lifted one hand and rubbed at the back of his neck, settling his shoulders against the wall. “I know a few places where I can fight. Just haven’t decided yet which one I’ll head for.”

“I guess... there’s clubs in every city, pretty much.”

“If you know where to find them.” Bayani turned his head: looked at Zoro with a half-smile. “You thinking of trying your luck elsewhere?”

“Maybe. If there’s places to fight that aren’t run by assholes like Takenaka.”

 

 

Bayani shook his head. “They’re all run by guys as bad as him. Or worse than him.” He regarded the younger man. “Why do you fight?”

“Need the money.” That wasn’t all, but Zoro didn’t want to admit he got a buzz from it.

“Find something else to make money at.” Bayani made a gesture with one hand. “Get a job.”

“Got a job. But it pays shit.”

“Then find a better job.” The Filipino shook his head again. “Fighting isn’t a good way to live.”

“So how come you do it?”

Bayani let his charming, elusive smile come onto his face. “With a name like mine, what other choice was there?”

“Bayani?” Zoro knew little about Filipino culture. “What’s it mean?”

“ ‘Hero’.” Bayani laughed self-mockingly. “Just following my name.”

 

 

 

 

 

When the light was out and they were both lying under the covers, Zoro lay awake for a long time. Curled on his side, feeling the warmth of the other man behind him: not quite touching.

_\- I know a few places where I can fight. Just haven’t decided yet which one I’ll head for._

In a few days’ time, Bayani would be gone. Moving on to another city, another club. Passing out of Zoro’s life as suddenly as he’d appeared in it.

The sensation and the sound of someone else in the bed with him felt strange and good. Like everything that had happened that night. Pleasure and pain mixed together. Zoro wanted more of what felt good, but it seemed like he couldn’t have one without the other.

 

 

Part of him wanted to ask Bayani to stay. Or to even to go with him when he moved on. But a bigger part of him knew that even asking wasn’t an option. They’d met; and fucked; and talked. And in the morning Zoro would get up and go back to his own place, and that was all. The end.

_Can’t have the good without the bad._

Just for once, Zoro wished the good would last out more than a night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Japanese translation notes:  
> rosuke = Russian
> 
> Writer's notes: Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter... I just really haven't been in a headspace where I could write. Things are starting to get a little easier now, so I'll try to update more regularly from hereon in.


	6. I Won't Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoro’s left arm lifted, hand already clenched into a fist – and Kuina’s arm moved too, even quicker. She deflected his blow with a swift movement, not breaking her eye contact with him. “Stop.”
> 
> His hand fell away. Then Zoro was standing staring into Kuina’s eyes, breathing hard, shakes running through him, every muscle knotted tight. Because he wanted to hit her, needed to hit someone, something. And if he couldn’t hit Kuina then the wall instead, he wanted to drive his fist into the bricks until it came away bloody, break himself, break the world. Wanted to feel the pain instead of feeling like this: on the edge, tipping over, out of control.
> 
> “Stop.” This time Kuina said it quietly. But her eyes still held his.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Tonight, my head is spinning_  
_I need something to pick me up_  
_I’ve tried but nothing is working_  
_I won’t stop,  I won’t say I’ve had enough_

_\- Three Days Grace_

 

* * *

 

 

 “Zoro. Wait a moment.”

Koshiro’s voice made Zoro pause as he was heading towards the locker room at the end of kendo class. He turned back: his sensei was standing with folded arms at the edge of the practice space. “Uh: yes, sensei.” He walked back to where his teacher stood.

Koshiro waited until Zoro reached him, then smiled at his student. “You’re making very good progress. Passing shōdan last month, only nine months after you began attending classes: that’s a real achievement.”

Zoro felt this affirmation kindle up a burst of satisfaction inside. “Thank you, sensei.”

 

 

His teacher regarded him. “There’s a community festival here a week from tomorrow. As part of it, there will be demonstrations of sports and other activities: I’ve been asked to take part. Would you be prepared to come along and fight a shiai in front of spectators, with another student?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Zoro nodded.

“You would have to be here at noon on that Saturday.”

“No problem.” The only thing Zoro ever had going on at weekends was fighting at the club... or getting wasted. Getting an opportunity to do kendo would be better.

“Thank you.” Koshiro nodded.

“What other stuff’s gonna be happening here, in this festival?”

“There are other martial arts clubs which use this practice space: karate, Taekwondo. And also dance, basketball, other sports.” His sensei gestured with one hand towards the doors which led to the rest of the community centre. “There’s a poster by the entrance with information, you can look on your way out. I wish to promote this kendo class... And I will also give a demonstration of iaido.”

 

 

Zoro had heard of iaido, but had never seen someone do it. He wasn’t surprised that his sensei was an iaidōka, though: from conversations with other kendo students and also from his reading, it seemed like many kendōka were also into iaido. “Do you teach iaido too, sensei?”

“Only to a small number of students. It’s less well known than kendo: fewer people wish to learn it.” Koshiro regarded him. “Are you thinking it may be another discipline you’d wish to master?”

Another discipline meant more learning. And more gear, too. “Would I need a katana?”

Koshiro laughed. “Not when starting out. Beginners use a bokken: a wooden sword. Only when an iaidoka has attained a sufficient level of skill do they use an actual katana... Or an iaitō, a metal sword without a cutting edge.”

Zoro expected that Koshiro fit into the latter category. His teacher was certainly an awesome kendōka. “I’d like to see it.”

“Then you’ll get your chance, a week on Saturday.” Koshiro nodded at him.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

                                                                           

Next weekend would be the community festival, but that Saturday was a fight night. Zoro got to the club at the usual time: found Shibata at his table, so he could get fixed up with a bout.

The fat man glanced up at him. “Hah. Back again?”

Shibata said some variation on this every time Zoro showed up. He’d learned to ignore it. “You got someone to put me up against?”

“Hhnn...” Shibata thought for a moment. “You’ve never fought Sakurai, right?”

Zoro shrugged. “Nope.”

“Okay. Tonight you do.” Shibata made a note on a piece of paper in front of him. “Fourth bout.”

 

 

As he wasn’t going to be fighting for a while, Zoro made for the bar and got himself a beer. He was wandering through the crowd trying to spot a quiet place to sit and drink it, when a familiar voice addressed him.

“Oi, Roronoa.”

Zoro stopped; then reluctantly turned around to see Kazuo looking up at him, from where he sat at a table. The other man indicated the empty seat next to him. “Sit down, eh. Been hoping you’d show tonight... Wanted to talk to you.”

Pulling out the chair, Zoro sat. Took a swallow from his beer bottle and regarded Kazuo steadily, saying nothing. The other man raised an eyebrow. “Nothing to say, for once?” Zoro gave a single shrug. “Okay, then I’ll do the talking. You’re fighting tonight, _ne?”_

 

 

“Yeah.” _Why the fuck else would I be in this dump,_ Zoro mentally added.

“Who’s Shibata put you up against?”

“Sakurai.”

Kazuo pursed his lips, making a semi-impressed face. “Hah. He’s a tough motherfucker. Better watch your ass in that ring.”

“Whatever.”

The older man’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. “Feeling confident, _gaki?_ Pride comes before a fall.”

“That’s original. You oughta write fortune cookies.”

 

 

“You ought to remember who you’re talking to.” All the mocking humour vanished from Kazuo’s voice, and from his face. His eyes suddenly gone that hard flat black that meant trouble. “Think because you’ve won a few fights here that makes you somebody, _kisama?_ Watch your fucking mouth, or you’ll be going a few rounds with me. For real.”

Zoro felt his hand clench around the neck of his beer bottle. And made no reply.

Kazuo looked steadily at him. “You get to come and here and fight, because I gave you that opportunity. So you can walk away at the end of the night with money in your pocket. But piss me off and I can make it so you don’t fight here ever again.” He shook his head. “So don’t piss me off.”

 

 

There was a long pause, where neither of them said anything. Then Kazuo leaned forward and picked his own beer up: knocked back a mouthful, before resting his arms on the table top. “You’ve got a pretty good thing going for you here, Roronoa. If I were you, I wouldn’t fuck it up. Otherwise you’ll have to go looking for another place to fight.”

Zoro wondered how many of the fighters there had done exactly that. “Takenaka got other clubs like this?”

“Fuck... What is it with you and your runaway mouth?” Kazuo shook his head. “That’s not a question you ought to be asking, _baka_. Like I told you before: turn up, fight, get your money, go home; don’t talk. That’s all you need to do.”

“I just wondered. Some of the guys who come through here fight in other places.”

“Like that Filipino _okama_ fought here a few weeks back?” Kazuo’s mouth pulled up at one corner, derisively. “Lucky for him he moved on. Turned out one of the other guys here knew him, from back east. If he hadn’t left town, someone would’ve helped him on his way.”

 

 

Something clenched in Zoro’s stomach. He tried to keep his face still, but something must have showed: Kazuo laughed out loud. “Saw him talking to you that night. He whisper sweet nothings in your ear?”

“No.” Zoro could feel his heart beating heavily. “He wanted a toke, we went up to the alley and split a joint.”

“Uh huh.” Kazuo’s eyes rested on him. “Lucky escape for you.”

 

 

Bayani’s words echoed in Zoro’s head.

_\- Make sure they don’t find out. Unless you want to find yourself fighting for your life in that ring._

Making his face as bored as he could manage, he gave a shrug. “Never realised. He had some fucking good weed, anyhow.”

Kazuo nodded. Still watching him. “Yeah.” He slowly picked up his beer and took another hit on it.

Zoro decided a change of subject was an urgent priority. “Speaking of which... You got any good shit at the moment?”

The other man gestured with his beer bottle. “How much you need?”

“A teener.”

“You planning to party all week?” Kazuo smiled sardonically.

“Just easier than buying a half g every time I want it.”

“No problem.” Kazuo gave a half nod. “You want it now, or after you fight?”

“After.”

“Okay. Find me later.” Kazuo drained his beer bottle, before standing up. “Gotta mingle. Think about what I said, Roronoa.”

 

 

Zoro watched the man walk away, before leaning forward and resting his own arms on the table. A knot of tension twisted tight in his stomach.

_Fuck._

Kazuo was always talking shit at Zoro: the enforcer seemed to get a kick out of riding the youth. But this felt different.

_He can’t fucking know anything._

Of course Kazuo knew Zoro had left the club with Bayani: they’d gone through Dimitri’s and every fucker they’d walked past on the way would have seen them. Which is why Zoro had said he’d gone to the alley with the Filipino for a toke. But no one had seen them in the alley... Or seen them head off after that. Together.

Had they?

 

 

It wasn’t a scenario Zoro wanted to think about. Especially not before getting up in the ring to fight.

_\- Lucky escape for you._

Kazuo’s expressionless eyes had given nothing away.

An upsurge of noise came from the centre of the room: cheering, shouting. A bout must just be starting in the ring. Zoro looked towards it, then let his head fall forwards slightly. Clenching his hand around the wet cold glass of his beer bottle. Trying to anchor himself in the here and now. Focus on what he was going to do.

Win his fight against Sakurai. Collect his winnings. Score that teener and then get the fuck out of here. Go home and get spun for a few hours. Forget about fucking Kazuo and this shitty place for another two weeks.

 

 

 

 

 

By the time his fight came due, Zoro had forced his brush with Kazuo into the background. As he walked into the open space of the ring the same thing happened as always: all the tangle of thoughts, the fucked-up stuff, fell away. Washed out of his brain by the rising flood of adrenaline. Everything going into clear focus. Sakurai on the other side of the ring, watching him with an impassive face. Shibata, making his usual announcement and then stepping back into the crowd that hemmed them in. The sounds of the onlookers rising into a surf-like roar... Then fading away as the buzz came on.

Sakurai moved at the same time as Zoro: then they were on each other. Hitting out, kicking, grappling. Each of them aiming for those places that would do the maximum harm: groin, kidneys, throat, head. A race to see who could get the most damage done first.

 

 

Zoro didn’t know how the fight was going, until suddenly he was standing at the side of the ring and he was the only one standing. Breathing hard and looking down at Sakurai who was lying on his side, blood pooling on the floor from his broken face, nose skewed and smashed.

“... _Oni! Oni!”_

It was a chant coming from the crowd. A sound that was exultant, hungry. Zoro took a breath in: and felt pain in his fists. Lifted one hand and saw his knuckles were bloody.

“The winner... Zoro Roronoa!” Shibata was stepping into the ring, along with another two guys who crouched down to where Sakurai lay unmoving. “Don’t forget to place your bets for the next fight!” The big man turned to face Zoro, giving him a considering look. “Hah... Playing for real now?”

 

 

The pain in his knuckles and the roar of the crowd pulled Zoro back, just a little, from wherever he’d been. Just enough to really feel it: that raw high, that always came with winning. That feeling of knowing he was still standing, still breathing. Still taking on whatever shit this world threw at him, and throwing it back.

Winning.

The two men were trying to lift Sakurai up off the floor. The other fighter was out cold: they had to drape his arms over their shoulders and haul him bodily out of the ring. After they’d moved away, a smeared puddle of blood showed where Sakurai had lain.

 

 

Zoro stepped back, out of the ring. Shouldering his way through the crowd, ignoring the shouts or the comments; making for where he’d left his hoodie on a chair. He pulled it on over his head, heedless of his stinging knuckles; then headed to the table where he could get his winnings. Feeling suddenly like he needed space. Something dark and sick starting to coil in his guts, underneath the good feeling of winning.

Shibata was already there. He glanced up at Zoro and let out a grunt, before tossing a wad of money onto the table. “You made a mess out there tonight.”

Zoro picked up the notes: began counting them. “So get someone to mop the floor.” He paused, frowning slightly at the money in his hand. “There’s three hundred bucks here.”

“Bonus.” Shibata gave him a look. “Crowd likes to see blood. Boss said you should get a little extra.”

_Takenaka?_

The money was in Zoro’s hand. Slowly he closed his fingers around it, folding the cash in half... Before pushing it into his pocket.

 

 

Some of his bonus he spent straight away. Finding Kazuo wasn’t hard: the enforcer was at a table in a dark corner of the room. Zoro sat down opposite and extended his hand under the table, holding the required amount of notes folded around one finger.

Kazuo shifted slightly in his chair, letting his own hand drop casually beneath the table. Zoro felt the notes taken; then the touch of a baggie being slid into his fingers. Kazuo sat back, giving him his dead-eyed smile. “Enjoy.”

Zoro got up to go.

“Roronoa.” Kazuo’s voice held him. “Fight like that next time, you can be walking away with extra again.”

Looking back at the other man, Zoro said nothing. Just nodded, before turning and walking away.

 

 

 

 

 

Once he was back home, Zoro took a shower. Standing for long minutes under the water, washing away the fight. Feeling the aches where Sakurai’s blows had found him. The stiffness in his hands. When he held them up to look, the knuckles were swollen, bruised.

A memory of Sakurai’s bloody, unconscious face rose in Zoro’s mind. The smeared dark puddle on the ring floor.

_\- Crowd likes to see blood._

Wiping Sakurai out had earned Zoro an extra hundred. And the fight was a nothing blur in his head. He couldn’t remember anything except standing there at the ring’s edge, hearing the chant coming from the spectators.

_\- Oni! Oni!_

 

 

Zoro’s left hand closed into a fist. Pain spiked from his bruised knuckles, but he ignored it.

_Stop thinking._

 

 

Luckily, the meth he’d bought from Kazuo did the trick. That night and the rest of the weekend.

 

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

 

The following Saturday, the community centre was busy with people. Families, kids running round on their own, teenagers in sports gear or martial arts clothing heading to or from one demonstration or another.

The men’s locker room had been crammed, and Zoro had got changed into his kendo uniform and out of there as quickly as possible. For lack of anywhere else to hang out he headed to the gym space: a karate demonstration was happening in there right now, but there were free seats up on the bleachers. He headed for the far end of the row and sat down, stowing his shinai and bōgu beside him before turning his gaze out over the karate students going through their paces. They were mostly teenagers, and a few kids: trading kicks and strikes while their kiai echoed in the room.

 

 

“Eh: move up.”

Zoro looked up to see Kuina standing at the end of the seating row, grinning down at him. Without answering he picked up his gear and moved along a little: Kuina sat down beside him, letting out an exhale. “Thanks.”

Instead of her usual dark blue formal kendo uniform, she was wearing a white keikogi over black hakama. But what really caught Zoro’s attention was what she was carrying in her right hand. A katana in a white lacquered saya, its handle also white-braided.

Kuina looked out over the sparring karate students and let out a slight sigh. “Huh... Hope these guys don’t go on too long. _Chichi_ said we’d be up before one o’clock.”

 

 

“That yours?” Zoro gestured at the katana.

Her gaze turned onto him, with a slight frown. “Yeah, of course it is. Why else you think I’m carrying it around?”

“Wondered if it was your dad’s.”

“No. It’s mine.” She said this emphatically. “I use it for iaido.”

“It real?” At her raised eyebrow, Zoro elaborated. “Like, not an iaitō? It’s got a cutting edge?”

“Yeah, it’s real,” She nodded. “It’s a Shinshinto katana, made by Morichika Kobayashi.”

 

 

Zoro guessed this was meant to sound impressive. “That mean it’s a good sword?”

“Of course, _aho_.” Kuina smirked at him. “It’s over two hundred years old. The smith that made this really knew how to forge steel.”

“So how come you’re using it for iaido? Shouldn’t it be in a glass case in a museum somewhere?”

“No. Wado deserves to be used.” Seeing Zoro’s brows pull together, Kuina elaborated. “Wado Ichimonji. That’s her name.”

“ ‘Straight Way of Harmony’? ” Zoro translated. “Weird name for a sword.”

“That’s the name she was given when she was forged.” Kuina shrugged.

 

 

Zoro looked at the katana in its saya. “I guess... a sword like that doesn’t come cheap.”

“It belonged to my grandfather _._ ” Kuina said this quietly, also looking at the sword. “It was passed down to _chichi..._ But he gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday. Said I was ready to start using a shinken for iaido.”

Remembering what Koshiro had told him the previous week, Zoro glanced sideways at her. “I guess that means you must be pretty good.”

“Been doing iaido since I was thirteen.” Kuina gave him a confident smile.

“So how long have you been doing kendo?”

“Since I was six.”

“Shit... No wonder you rule our fucking dojo.”

 

 

Kuina laughed. “Eh, don’t look so despairing. Give it a few years, you’ll get the hang of it.”

“I’m gonna take you by the summer.” Zoro folded his arms across his knees.

“Keep telling yourself that.” She bared her teeth in a grin. “Hey, Gito Gito Hustler are playing next Saturday night. Wanna come?”

“Probably gonna be busy.” _Wiping someone out at Takenaka’s club._

“ _Che_ , you ever just hang out and have fun? Lighten up.”

 

 

Around them the spectators on the bleachers broke into applause. They both looked out into the gym: the karate students made their final bows, before walking off the central space where the demonstrations were happening.

“Uh oh, looks like we’re up.” Kuina nodded towards the main doorway. Koshiro had entered and was standing there, with some of his kendo students. “Better get out there.”

 

 

Five other kendōka had turned up as well as Zoro, so they took it in turns to fight. Zoro was paired with Takada, an older kendōka who he’d sparred with a few times in jigeiko. The other man was an experienced fighter, nothing flashy but he moved with practiced grace: his poise was a quality Zoro took notice of. Showing good kendo etiquette or reiho was still something he had to really work at to pull off.

They were the last pair to fight. Being as how they were giving a demonstration for their sensei’s kendo class, both kendōka made sure they did everything right. Their shiai was textbook: at the end of it they both bowed to each other, then to the applauding spectators, before going to kneel at the edge of the space, facing inwards.

 

 

After a pause, Kuina walked into the centre of the room, which grew quiet as she came to a halt. Gazing steadily straight ahead of her, she placed her hands against her sides and bowed, before coming down into kneeling. Placing her katana, still sheathed in its white-laquered saya, precisely on the floor in front of her she bowed again: before straightening up and sliding her sword onto her belt. There was a beat of silence; then with a smooth movement she rose up on one knee and drew her katana from the saya. Sweeping it forward almost too quickly to see, the blade cutting the air with an audible sound. Following with a slide forward, still on one knee, and a swift vertical slice with the katana: as if delivering a killing blow.

Zoro found his hands clenching where they rested on his knees.

_Whoa._

 

 

Her face impassive, Kuina slowly rose to her feet. Bringing the katana up and back – then flicking it forward with a single strong jerk of her wrist. Chiburi: the symbolic gesture of shaking blood from the tip of a blade.

Another small pause; then Kuina deftly reversed her katana and slid it back into its saya, sinking back onto one knee as she did so.

The gym was totally quiet. It felt as though the spectators were holding their breath.

Slowly Kuina rose to standing; stepped back a few measured paces, then turned around and knelt once more. Holding that perfect moment of stillness, her bare feet just showing under her hakama, her back straight... Before she lifted up a little and pivoted back to face the spectators, katana flowing out in another sideways slice, followed by that downwards sweep that split the air with a noise of intent.

 

 

Zoro kept his eyes fixed on her. On the clean, brutal lines of the kata. The bright flicker of Wado Ichimonji’s blade.

When Kuina reached the end of her display, she knelt: removed her sheathed katana from her belt and placed it on the floor in front of her, bowing low over it as before. Then picked her sword up; stood and bowed one final time, before walking off. The gym broke into slightly stunned applause, which Zoro joined in.

He saw Kuina walk to where Koshiro was standing, at the edge of the gym. His sensei looked at his daughter and gave her a smile: a single nod. Which spoke volumes.

Kuina’s head lifted, just a little; and an answering smile came to her face.

 

 

Zoro found himself wondering what that felt like. To have your family stand there and watch you do something, and take pride in what you’d done.

Many of the people there that day would know that feeling. Kids going through their karate moves, applauded by their families. Teenagers supposedly grown out of needing parental approval, but still watched and supported. Nothing out of the ordinary: just what most people did.

 

 

Koshiro was walking out now to the centre of the room, carrying a katana: beginning his own display of iaido. Zoro watched his sensei, trying to bring his attention fully to what he was going to see, but a dark hollow was opening up inside him. A feeling of emptiness in his chest: something that he couldn’t fill.

The only time people cared whether he won a fight, it was because they could win money on the outcome. And what they wanted to see was Roronoa _Oni:_  the demon who left opponents bloody and unconscious on the floor. In an underground club that stank of cigarette smoke and alcohol and adrenaline-fuelled excitement.

_What would they think? If they knew what I do?_

 

 

All these ordinary families, with their karate kids and awkward teens: sitting in the bleachers, watching Koshiro move into one precise kata after another. People who probably had no idea that clubs like Takenaka’s existed.

_What would Koshiro think? And Kuina?_

 

 

Zoro could come here and put on a show, fight a kendo shiai, as if he belonged here. But he didn’t belong here. He wasn’t part of this world: these normal people, with their lives that revolved around family and jobs and school and all the things he didn’t have. When Zoro left here he would go back to his apartment and do some lines and smoke and lose the rest of the weekend. And a week from now he’d be fighting again, fighting for real, fucking someone else up for the money and for the brief high he got from winning. Or maybe he’d be unlucky and he’d be the one getting fucked up.

Koshiro continued with his display. His body in perfect alignment with his katana: every move showing the harmony of the man with the sword, intent and skill and concentration flowing through him.

 

 

_Straight Way of Harmony._

The name of Kuina’s sword made sense now. The way she’d looked as she had gone through her kata. Absolutely focused, on being the best she could.

Zoro wanted that. Wanted to be the best kendōka he could. Wanted to learn iaido too, now that he had seen it. But no one was giving him an heirloom katana. The only inheritance he’d got from his uncle was being pinned up against the wall in the Big Fish Bar, Kazuo’s hand round his throat.

He would learn iaido, anyway. And he would keep on doing kendo. And he would continue fighting at the club, because that was real money. Better than the shitwork day labouring he was still doing most weekdays.

 

 

_\- Fighting isn’t a good way to live._

Bayani’s words sounded in Zoro’s head. And he wished he could strip them from his memory. Maybe the Filipino had been right; but Bayani still fought, regardless. And Zoro would go on fighting, too. Because it was something that he was good at. Because it made him feel good, for a while. Even though after he fought he dropped down from the high, eventually. Falling as if he’d stepped out and the ground wasn’t there.

The meth cured that. Even if it was only a temporary fix, it was a reliable one. It took more now to get him buzzed than when he’d first started using it; but as long as he kept going to the club he could get hold of what he needed.

 

 

Out in the gym, Koshiro came to standing. Bowed to the watching audience, who broke into applause, as they had for Kuina. Zoro watched his sensei walk away to where Kuina stood waiting at the edge of the room. Once more father and daughter exchanged smiles.

Zoro turned his gaze away.

 

 

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

 

It was mid-June and the summer heat had started early. Putting in a ten-hour day doing yardwork for Carrillo was no picnic: they were landscaping and laying turf in the grounds of a yuppie mansion in the burbs, barrowing heavy loads of earth and stone around to the garden from the front access because the owners had decided they didn’t want the inconvenience of heavy machinery leaving tracks across their property. By the end of the third day Zoro was beat, but thankfully the job was finished. Carrillo paid him and Hernandez cash in crumpled notes, dropping them off at the usual street corner.

Before Carrillo drove off, he stuck his head out of the window. “Ey. Next couple of days I won’t be around. My _hermana’s_   youngest just got married, promised her I’d fix up her new place. So I won’t be needing you guys till sometime next week.”

 

 

Hernandez let out a grunt, watching their employer’s truck drive off. “ _Chido_. After the last three days I could use some time to recover.”

“Yeah. For sure.” Zoro felt like he was coated with a layer of sweat and garden soil, and his hands were sore.

The older man glanced at him. “You got plans?”

Zoro shook his head. “Nothing till Friday night... Got my kendo class.”

“How’s that going?”

“Pretty good.”

“Don’t know how you find the energy for it, after busting our asses for Carrillo like we do.”

“I’ll sleep in tomorrow.”

Hernandez regarded him speculatively. “Yeah, lately you been looking a little _cansado_. Need to cut down on the partying with your friends... _¿_ _Que no?”_

Giving the other man a quick grin, Zoro slung his daypack onto his shoulder. “Gotta live it up while I’m young, old man.”

“ _Güey_...” Hernandez let out a snort. “See you next week.”

“Yeah.” Zoro raised a hand as he walked away.

 

 

Back at home he stripped off the grimy clothes he’d been working in, dumping them in the mounting laundry pile in his room. That was a chore that needed doing, but it could wait till another day.

After showering off the dirt he grabbed a cold beer from the fridge, before dropping down onto the couch. Scrolling through music on his phone: selecting NIN’s _With Nails_ and plugging it into the mini-speaker on the table, cranking up the volume. Skipping the first track, straight to _You Know What You Are_. Drumbeat and distorted guitar and harsh vocals a white noise soundtrack, scoring a final line under the back-breaking working day.

_Time to live it up._

 

 

Zoro got his baggie out, checking its contents: maybe a g of shards left from the previous weekend. Plenty to put him in the zone and keep him there for tonight. And maybe tomorrow. Long as he didn’t stay wired all the following night; if he popped a Xannie and crashed he’d have time to get some sleep in before kendo class on the Friday evening.

He prepped a line and snorted it, sitting back with his eyes closed and waiting for the burn to ease off. Like always it stung like a motherfucker, but he’d gotten to almost like the pain because it was soon followed by the lift-off.

A month back, after doing lines all weekend he’d felt something tickling his upper lip: put his fingers up to brush away the itch and they’d come away bloody. A fucking nosebleed. It hadn’t lasted long, but it still meant changing up.

Zoro knew there were other ways to take the shit. So far he’d gone for alternating snorting with parachuting it, wrapping it in square of toilet tissue and swallowing it down with a beer chaser. A different buzz, kind of a mellower high throughout his body that lasted a good long time. He was wary of smoking it because the guys who were into that were total tweaker head cases. And as for IV, or plugging it... Fuck that. Needles were bad news; and he wasn’t about to shove meth up his ass, it hurt bad enough snorting the stuff.

 

 

After a little while Zoro felt warmth bloom under his skin: that rush of clarity and energy flood through him, taking the fatigue of the last three days and shoving it somewhere he couldn’t feel it any more. He sat back and drank beer a cool mouthful at a time, letting the high and the music wash over him. Losing track of time for a while.

 

 

 _‘The more I stay in here  /_  
_The more it's not so clear  /_  
_The more I stay in here  /_  
_The more I disappear.’_

 

 

The restlessness was kicking in now. In a little while maybe he would get up: go out and walk or run through the streets, keeping moving.

 

 

 _‘Well I'm trying to hold my breath  /_  
_I don't know    I don't know  /_  
_Just how far down can I go  /_  
_I don't know    I don't know    I don't know.’_

 

 

After a few hours this hit would wear off, so he’d have another. No need to get up for work tomorrow, or the next day. He had plenty of beers in the fridge; some good grass for when he was ready to come down. And Xannies to put his lights out, when he finally needed to crash.

 

 

_Got what I need._

 

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

 

The alarm on Zoro’s phone sounded, pulling him out of a black pit. He came up unwillingly and slowly, the shrill sound drilling into his head.

“...Uhhh... _Fuck...”_   He groped sideways, eyes still shut: his fingers touched the shape of his phone but he knocked it sideways. It fell with a thud onto the floor, the alarm still going off. Ramping up louder in that annoying way it did when you didn’t kill the fucking thing straight away.

“Shutthefuck _up.”_   Zoro levered himself upright, before bending sideways and reaching down to the floor, snagging the phone and stabbing the screen with a finger to end the racket. It wasn’t a good move: as he sat upright again his head swirled, feeling like rocks were crashing about inside it. Zoro put a hand up to his face, squeezing his eyes shut. “...Motherfucker.”

 

 

After a little while the head trauma subsided enough for him to open his eyes again and check the time on his phone. Six o’clock, in the evening.

_Shit._

He had to move his ass, or he’d be late for kendo class. He got out of bed and hauled on a t-shirt and sweatpants, before stumbling to the kettle. Strong black coffee was what he needed, although his guts were sending him unhappy signals. Zoro tried and failed to remember when he’d last eaten.

Scouring the cupboards yielded the end of a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter, so he smeared the latter onto a slice of the former and folded it over: ate it standing up, in between mouthfuls of coffee. Neither of which went far in improving the sour state of his stomach.

As he drank his coffee, Zoro’s eyes roamed around the main room of his small apartment. His rumpled bed in the corner; the table by the couch with a collection of empty beer bottles and a full ashtray; his dirty work clothes lying where he’d left them in a pile on the floor. He found himself pulling a wry face.

_This place needs fucking straightening out._

 

 

Not now, though. He checked the time on his phone: almost six-thirty. Chugging back the rest of his mug of coffee, he moved to where his kendo bag sat by the apartment door and headed out.

 

 

Zoro hoped that getting moving out in the fresh air would help how he felt, but even after he’d been walking for fifteen minutes he still felt shitty. Sometime before dawn he’d popped a Xanax so he could get some sleep: and it felt like he was still slowed down, his head thick and fuzzy around the edges. Plus he had a hangover-type headache... And the coffee and food hadn’t done much except add an overlayer of queasiness.

When he reached the community centre he got changed quickly in the locker room, avoiding conversation. Once he was in the gym space and class had started he tried to get into the zone: focussing and re-focussing on his breathing in mokuso, while the nausea and headache ebbed and returned.

Warm-ups were a bitch. It felt stuffy in the practice room, and the combined volume of everyone’s shouted kiai bounced off the walls and around Zoro’s head. Then came working on technique, and once again he felt himself struggling to stay focused, to bring the necessary attention to see what he needed to do to improve.

 

 

Once they paired up for jigeiko things got a little easier. Sparring was a hell of a lot more manageable than concentrating on technique had been. The solid familiar feel of his shinai in his hands anchored him a little, sending some signal that his chaotic body tried to follow.

Zoro circled his opponent, trying to find the zone. Remembering to keep his weight balanced between front and back foot; his back straight; his grip light but firm; to watch how the other kendōka shifted position; to breathe in and breathe out.

His kendogi was clinging to his back with sweat. Everything felt heavy and cumbersome, like it was taking more effort to move than usual.

 

 

The other kendōka moved, striking out: Zoro blocked it, but only just. He tried to follow up and their shinai crossed, holding and pushing against each other. His opponent’s shrill kiai went through Zoro’s head like a drill. He shouted back and then they broke and were circling again, facing off against each other.

The wood of the floor felt cool beneath his bare feet. Everything else was hot, clammy. Every time he struck out, feinted, blocked, it pushed a fresh wave of heat through him. He was suffocating inside his bōgu, breathing hard through his mouth.

The kendōka in front of him was suddenly moving forward fast, shinai raised: Zoro brought his own up to meet it and the shock of impact as the other kendōka drove forward into him in tai-atari destroyed his balance. He felt one foot leave the ground, his weight shifting backwards. And his opponent stepped in and finished the move, using his legs to force tai-atari home.

Instead of standing firm like he should have done, Zoro fell back. And then fell the rest of the way, feet searching for a floor that was suddenly not where it was meant to be: until it came up and met the back of his head with a crack.

 

 

There were a few seconds of blurry light show and the world’s soundtrack went a way off, voices stretching out into echo and hum. Before slowly resolving into the solid feel of wood under his back; a hand holding his shoulder; and a voice repeating his name.

“...Zoro. Open your eyes.”

“...Uhhn...” Zoro managed to make some kind of sound as he breathed out, still waiting for the floor to settle underneath him. He somehow rolled onto his side, then pushed himself up onto his knees.

“Let’s take off his men.” He felt hands at the back of his head, unlacing his men: then a rush of air came, cool against his sweaty face and head. Koshiro was suddenly there in front of him, crouching down and looking into his eyes. “Look at me.” He studied the youth’s face. “That was a bad fall. Did you hit your head against the floor?”

“...Uh. Yeah...” The world was starting to feel less unsteady, but pain at the back of Zoro’s head was coming into sharp focus.

 

 

His sensei’s hand reached up, touching the sore area very gently: fingers brushing through Zoro’s hair. “Hm. Do you feel dizzy?”

“...No.” The floor had stopped rocking now. Zoro was aware they were attracting attention from some of the other students: kendōka pausing in their own sparring to look over at what was unfolding. He let out a breath, before using a hand on the floor to help push himself up to his feet. “I’m okay.”

“You don’t look it.” Koshiro took hold of his arm, supporting him as he stood up.

“I’m really sorry.” The kendōka he’d been sparring with hove into view next to Koshiro. “I didn’t think I went at you that hard.”

“The tai-atari was executed correctly.” Koshiro looked at Zoro. “But you didn’t stand firm.”

 

 

Zoro nodded, then winced: the motion sent pain clunking like an iron ball against his skull. “Yes... sensei.”

_I fucked up._

Koshiro regarded him. “Go and sit down for a while.”

“I’m okay to carry on.” Zoro took a breath.

“No.” Koshiro shook his head. “Better to give yourself some time to recover. You want some water?”

“I can get some,” volunteered the other kendōka.

 

 

Sat on a chair at the edge of the dojo, holding a plastic cup of water, Zoro watched jigeiko continue. He raised the cup to his lips and swallowed a mouthful, then propped his forehead in one hand. His face felt sweaty and there was an ache that pulsed between his temples. Where the back of his head had connected with the floor it felt tender: he was going to have one fuck of a bruise there tomorrow.

Maybe an ice pack would’ve helped. And Koshiro could probably get one, the centre was well equipped for first aid, but Zoro didn’t want the hassle. Didn’t want to face his sensei again, after making such spectacle of himself.

_\- You didn’t stand firm._

 

 

He scowled down at the floor. Then slowly lifted the cup to his mouth and took another gulp of water. Felt it go down into his stomach like lead.

Nausea leapt into his throat, cold and instant, bringing a new flood of sweat out on his face. Zoro pulled in a breath; placed the cup down, and stood up. Walked out of the gym space and headed for the locker room.

 

 

The place seemed empty, for which he would have given silent thanks except he was too busy concentrating on breathing through his nose and moving swiftly to a toilet stall... Where he bent double and threw up until he could feel his sides banging together.

It was a good few minutes before things settled down enough that he could wipe his mouth, leaning heavily against the wall; hawk and spit one last time into the toilet bowl, then flush it away. After which he walked unsteadily back through the locker room and opened his locker, shedding his bōgu before grabbing his trainers and pulling them on. He made for the fire door exit in the corridor outside, the one that led into the alley at the back of the community centre. In the summer months it was often propped open, to bring some relief to a building which had no air-con.

Outside the evening air felt muggy on his still-sweaty skin: it wasn’t exactly fresh but it would have to do. There was a doorway in the building across the alley, another fire exit with a concrete step. Zoro sat down on it; folded his arms across his knees, and let his head fall forward.

His mouth tasted rank and sour. He ought to have got another drink of water, but right now whatever he put into his stomach would just fight to get out again. He breathed slowly in and out, trying to focus on the sounds of distant traffic, on counting his breaths, instead of on the pounding ache in his head and the sick pulling of his guts and the feeling that he just wanted to run and run until he left all this fucking shit behind.

 

 

“You gonna puke again?”

The voice, insistent and clear, cut through his self-induced semi trance. Zoro blinked and lifted his head. To see Kuina standing a few feet away, next to the fire exit. She nodded when she saw she had his attention, and spoke again. “ ’Cos if you are, give me some warning.”

Zoro let out a heavy breath... And managed a more or less succinct response. “I don’t need a fucking audience.”

“Tough shit.” Kuina gave him a snarky grin. “How come you’re skulking out here?”

“Just needed some air.”

“Plenty of air indoors.”

 

 

The pain in his head wound up a notch; Zoro propped his forehead on one hand and shut his eyes. “I like the air out here better.”

Kuina said nothing for a moment. He heard the scuff of her footsteps crossing the alley, then stop close beside him. “Heard you hurling your guts in the locker room. _Chichi_   noticed you walk out, told me to go check you were all right.”

“Well, now you’ve found me you can go back and tell him I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you look fine. Apart from the puking and groaning. How’s your head?”

 

 

Zoro gritted his teeth. “Great. It’d be even better if I didn’t have to listen to you talking.”

“ _Che_ , you’re such a whiner. Maybe next time you’ll remember not to fall over.”

“Go report back to daddy and get the fuck out of my face.”

“ _Bakayarou_... You think that’s the actual reason I followed you out here?” Kuina’s voice suddenly had a harder edge.

“I don’t give a shit, as long as you go away.”

“It’s meth, right?”

 

 

Her words fell between them and stilled the night air.

 

 

Zoro opened his eyes. Lifted his head and looked at Kuina. Her gaze was steady on him, eyes cool and assessing. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“What you’re on. Ice or crank: whatever. Different grades, same shit.”

Feeling his hands clenching into fists, Zoro pushed himself into sitting bolt upright. “I’m not - ”

“I hang out with musicians a lot. I know what meth comedown looks like.” Kuina said this clearly and with just an edge of anger that warned him from arguing. “Don’t treat me like an idiot.”

Zoro gave her a look from under frowning brows; glanced at the dojo fire door... Then turned his gaze back to her. “And you’re gonna tell Koshiro? _That’s_   why you followed me out here?”

 

 

“Don’t act a bigger idiot than you are.” Kuina leaned in, scowling right back at him. “Why would I tell him? It’s not his business.”

“It’s not yours either, yet here you are getting in my face about it,” Zoro pointed out.

She snorted. “Yeah well, consider this an intervention.”

“Get bent.” Zoro stood up, ready to walk the hell away from her.

 

 

“Walk away now and you are finished here.” Kuina’s voice was flat.

The alleyway went so quiet they could both hear the surf sound of traffic. Then Zoro said slowly and distinctly, “You mean you _are_ gonna tell your old man - ”

“I mean you will be finished, as a kendōka. And probably as a human being too, meth does that: it takes anything worthwhile in your life and flushes it. Which is your prerogative if you wanna throw your life down the toilet... But before that happens you’re not gonna be able to keep on coming here, because getting amped and doing kendo? Not the brightest idea ever.”

“I’m not amped.” Keeping his voice level, holding in the anger.

“Yeah. You’re feeling the crash now, right? Not nice. And I bet cracking your skull on the floor was just what your brain didn’t need.”

Zoro turned away. “No, getting an earful of this shit from you is just what I don’t need.”

“So I’m betting you’re popping benzos too, to come down.” Her voice held him. “Ativan, or Xanax: some shit like that. That why you zoned out in there just now?”

“I didn’t fucking zone out.” Zoro stared at the alleyway in front of him. Not really seeing it.

“Yes you did. And you got wiped out. Because that’s what happens when you do martial arts when you’re _fucked up on drugs_.” Her voice was a whip crack of anger.

 

 

After a moment, Zoro turned back to face her. And Kuina’s face was as angry as her voice had been. She spoke again. “If you’re doped up, you shouldn’t be in there. You can get hurt: really hurt. You could have got badly hurt today. Or you could hurt someone else.”

“I’m not doped up.”

 

 

She regarded him steadily. “You looked like shit when you arrived this evening. You look even worse now. When did you last eat?”

Food was the last thing Zoro wanted to think about. “A couple of hours ago.”

“What did you eat?”

“A sandwich.” Which was stretching the truth: a slice of bread smeared with peanut butter wasn’t exactly a sandwich. But Zoro wasn’t feeling cooperative under this interrogation.

“You’re probably dehydrated as well. You drink any water before coming to practice?”

“I had some coffee.”

“Great.” Kuina snorted derisively. “I’ll bet you’ve been up speeding for days. You just do lines? Or are you stupid enough to be smoking that junk?”

“How come any of this is your business?”

“I’m making it my business.” She folded her arms across her chest.

“Why’d you give a fuck?” Zoro had had enough.

“Because watching someone auto-destruct really pisses me off.” She shrugged. “Why don’t you give a fuck about _yourself?”_

 

 

He was going to make an angry response, to argue, to tell her to quit trying to get into his head. But suddenly he had no comeback.

_\- Why don’t you give a fuck about yourself?_

 

 

Kuina watched his face. And after a long silence, said more quietly, “If you keep on doing meth, you're just waiting in line to lose everything. There’s nothing in your life that it won't steal from you. I’ve seen it happen, to people I know. First they want it; then they stop wanting anything else. They stop caring about anything else. It’s like... life still happens, but they’re not connected to it any more.”

“I’m not hooked.” Zoro needed to say this.

“You ever slam it?”

“Fuck, no: I don’t inject. Lines, mostly. Or swallow it.”

“No wonder you were puking your guts up. It wrecks your stomach.” She let out a heavy sigh. “Wrecks your body wherever you shove it.”

“I can handle it. Like I said, I’m not hooked.”

“Then quitting should be easy.”

 

 

Her words landed between them like a challenge. Zoro felt his shoulders tense up. “Maybe I don’t want to quit.”

“Then forget about ever coming back here.” Kuina’s voice took on a hard edge again.

Anger burst in Zoro, raw and dark. “You plan on stopping me?”

“Yeah. I told you: if you’re doped up, you don’t belong here.”

It felt like the only thing Zoro still had in his life that wasn’t worthless was being pulled out from under him. “I’m not quitting kendo!”

“Good. Then choose. Quit the other shit.”

 

 

There was a long silence. Which was broken by Kuina. Letting out a slow careful breath. “Look. I know it won’t be easy... But getting off that stuff means you’ll have a life. One that doesn’t involve wrecking yourself and losing everything you care about.”

Right now, Zoro wasn’t sure he cared about anything much. Except kendo. “You do this a lot? Go round getting on people’s case about this kind of thing?”

A wry smile crossed her face. “No. Only with friends that I care about.”

 

 

That stopped Zoro in his tracks. He looked at her: at her ironic smile. “You think we’re friends?”

Kuina let out a snort of laughter. Before sitting down on the step and looking up at him. “Well, yeah.” At his frown, she rolled her eyes. “Eh, is that such a revelation?”

“Figured you thought I was kind of an asshole.” Zoro couldn’t think of any other way to put it.

“You are an asshole. Sometimes.” She smiled again. “But sometimes you’re okay to be around.”

Zoro didn’t really know what to make of this.

 

 

After a few moments, Kuina spoke again. “Y’know... It’d totally suck if you gave up kendo now. You’re getting pretty good.”

That was unexpected feedback to get, especially from Kuina. Zoro regarded her. “I don’t plan on giving up.”

She nodded slowly. “You’ve only been coming, what: just over a year? But you’ve really learned quickly.”

“Your dad ever say how I’m doing?” As soon as he’d spoken the question, Zoro wondered why he’d asked it.

Kuina’s eyes rested on him. “He thinks you’re doing pretty good, too.”

 

 

A small burst of something kicked through Zoro’s chest. Some unfamiliar feeling, that he wanted to hold onto. After a moment, he said, “I’m gonna start learning iaido.”

“Oho?” Kuina got a smirk on her face. “You are such a biter... You plan on getting a tattoo when I get mine, too?”

“Like fuck.” Zoro felt a smile coming onto his own face, at last.

“Need to get your hair redone.” She gestured at his head. “I’ll come round and do it at your place, if you want.”

“Maybe,” Zoro grunted.

“Hey, you ever thought of getting some piercings?”

“I don’t need a fucking makeover!”

“Might take your mind off things.” Her tone was light.

“Yeah, having holes punched through sensitive parts of my body would definitely do that.” Zoro moved, letting himself sit down heavily on the step beside her.

 

 

“Wuss.” Kuina nudged her shoulder against his.

Zoro felt her body rest against him, just for a second. And it occurred to him for the first time that whatever weird connection there was between the two of them, maybe Kuina might be expecting more from him than he was going to give her.

He sat still. Looking across the alley at the opposite wall. “Haven’t you got a boyfriend you can do this kind of dressing-up shit to?”

“Hah?” Kuina sounded taken unawares. “Boyfriend? No.” There was a second’s pause; then she took a breath in. Before speaking in tones of only slightly-concealed amusement. “Was that your incredibly unsubtle way of trying to find out if I’m coming on to you?”

 

 

Zoro folded his arms. “...No.”

“Right.” Kuina’s shoulder bumped against his again. Harder. “I said, you’re my friend. I’m not looking to get it on with you, _aho_.”

It was a conversation Zoro wanted to have even less than the one about his drug use that had preceded it, but at least it was out there now. “Okay.”

“You got someone?” Kuina’s question was casual.

“No.” Zoro gave a half-shake of his head.

“Me either.” She sounded unbothered about it. “I was dating this guy last year, from school... But he didn’t like me coming to kendo every Friday night. Wanted to go to parties, and got pissy when I wouldn’t come along. So I ditched him.”

“Sounds like an asshole.”

“Pretty much.” She accepted his assessment uncritically. “It’s not so bad being free. Means I can do what I like.” Then she gave a sudden grin. “Though not getting any really bites sometimes.”

 

 

Zoro couldn’t argue with that. “Yeah.”

Kuina nudged him in the side. “Sounds like I’m not the only one not getting any action.”

Giving her a look, Zoro let out a breath. “So?”

“So, why not?”

He dropped his gaze. “Lack of opportunity.”

“How hard are you trying?”

“It’s not exactly my top priority, right now.”

“You taken the True Love Waits pledge or something?” Her voice went up a little. “ _Masaka_... Are you still a virgin?”

 

 

Zoro felt the blood coming into his face. “Fuck, no.”

“Would you ‘fess up if you were?” Kuina sounded like she was trying to suppress something: probably laughter.

“I’m not a virgin.” The word felt unbelievably weird in his mouth. “I’ve slept with – someone.”

“Uh huh.”

Staring at his arms resting across his knees, Zoro felt something rising up. A need to tell. As if it would help hold onto the memory of that night. “Someone I met. At a club.” He didn’t look at her. “A guy.”

 

 

There was a long silence. At last Zoro turned his head and looked at Kuina. Her expression wasn’t shocked, or disgusted, or even surprised. He wondered if she’d got it. “I’m gay.”

One of her eyebrows rose, just a little. “ _Atarimae_.”

Long seconds passed in silence. And the world kept turning.

 

 

At last Zoro felt he had to say something. “You figured that out?”

“Hmm, yeah.” Kuina gave him a small smile.

Zoro wondered how. “You tell anyone else?”

Her eyes got big at that. “Why would I do that? I’m not about to out you. That’s something you choose when and how to do, right?”

In an ideal world, maybe. Zoro thought of the other kendōka getting wind of his orientation. How that might play out in the locker room. “I’m not planning on marching at Gay Pride any time soon.”

“That’s your decision.” She shrugged. “But I’ll bet no-one in kendo class will care either way.”

“Sure.” Zoro snorted.

“Really.” She looked at him. “Okay, maybe you might get one or two dumb reactions from the hard-of-understanding... But most people will be like, ‘Whatever’.”

 

 

Zoro wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t see any point in arguing.

“You had someone giving you a hard time about it?” Kuina tipped her head slightly on one side. “Your family?”

“No.” Zoro thought about what Bayani had said to him. About Kazuo, gazing at him across the table in the club. “Just... not always easy to shout it from the rooftops.”

“That time you turned up here with those bruises...” Kuina was frowning now. “Was that about this? Someone found out?”

He shook his head. “Nothing like that.”

Kuina studied his face for a moment... Then let out a slight sigh. “Okay.”

 

 

This time their silence stretched for a while. Not uncomfortably: because neither of them seemed to have anything else they needed to say.

At last Kuina let out a small sigh. “Eh... We better go back in. Otherwise _chichi’s_ gonna wonder what’s up.”

Zoro stood. “Yeah.”

Kuina got up too: turned her gaze onto him. “So... You’re going to give it a shot? Quitting that stuff?”

Zoro just nodded. Kuina’s brows drew together slightly. “You know... There’s places you can go, to get help with quitting.”

“I don’t need any help.” Zoro gave a single shake of his head.

“Coming off meth’s no walk in the park. You plan on just going cold turkey?”

“Sure.” Zoro shrugged.

 

 

Kuina regarded him. “You ought to stock up on stuff. Food, stuff like soup and juice; vitamins.”

“Vitamins?” Zoro cocked one eybrow at her.

“Your body’s going to be totally out of whack when you stop taking that shit. And you’re not gonna feel much like cooking.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“You should steer clear of anyone you know who uses or deals. You’re going to want it pretty bad before you’re clean.”

 

 

That gave Zoro pause: he frowned.

_Kazuo. The club._

He went to the club to fight, but he never left without buying shit from Kazuo. Which meant staying away from there.

_Fuck._

 

 

Kuina had been watching his face. She spoke quietly. “Seriously. If there are guys you know who are into this stuff, you need to not be around them if you really plan to quit. It’s going to be hard enough, without having temptation waved in your face.”

Zoro let out a long breath. “...Okay.”

She nodded, slowly. “People go through this, and come out the other side. But it’s a rough ride.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Uh huh.” Kuina gave a small smile. “Maybe I’ll drop by your place, one evening next week sometime. That okay?”

“To check up on me?” Zoro folded his arms.

She gestured towards his head. “No, _aho_. To do your hair.” Her smile became a smirk.

 

 

 

 

 

By the time Zoro got home after kendo class, he felt wiped. Switching on the light in his apartment, the mess he’d left greeted him. His gaze travelled over his rumpled bed, the pile of dirty clothes, the table with the full ashtray. And the empty baggie that had contained his meth stash... Now all gone.

_I took the whole g?_

It wasn’t an abnormal amount for him to get through now, in a few days. What had started out as just an occasional hit, keeping the lift-off going after fighting at the club, had become a weekend-long habit. And lately, a pick-up during the week as well.

 

 

Zoro picked up the empty baggie... And found himself holding it up to the light, checking to see if there was any left.

He closed his hand into a fist, crumpling the bag inside his fingers. Then went to the kitchen area and tossed it into the bin. Followed this by fetching the ashtray and emptying it in there too. Collected up empty beer bottles, stacking them by the apartment door ready to be taken out. Scooped up the pile of dirty clothes and stuffed them into a bag so he could take them to the laundry room in the basement.

For the next hour he blitzed the apartment, clearing away the accumulated crap of a two-day drug binge and several weeks of not giving a fuck.

 

 

The only time he hesitated was when he opened a drawer in his nightstand to put away a t-shirt he’d picked up off the floor, and found himself gazing down at his stash of weed and a baggie with a dozen Xanax in.

_Shit._

Zoro had never talked to anyone who’d tried quitting meth. But from what little he’d heard, quitting anything was all kinds of lacking in fun. So maybe having something on hand to take the edge off would help. He still had few beers left; and a half bottle of Jack.

_\- You ought to stock up on stuff. Food, stuff like soup and juice; vitamins._

 

 

Kuina’s advice came back to him: Zoro found himself smiling wryly.

_Screw that._

He put the t-shirt into the drawer, then pushed the drawer shut.

 

 

 

 

The weekend stretched out empty and blank. Zoro tried to read the kendo book he’d most recently borrowed from Koshiro, but his mind wouldn’t focus for long. He didn’t feel like doing anything much, but on Sunday he forced himself to trudge down to the laundry area in the basement to deal with his accumulated dirty clothes; then took out the trash. After that he walked to the nearest grocery store to buy some food.

He found himself standing in the aisle gazing blankly at boxes of cereal without seeing them. Not really knowing how long he’d been standing there spacing out.

_Fuck... Get a grip._

Zoro wasn’t even hungry. But he knew there was hardly any food in his place, so he ought to buy something. Listlessly roaming round the store, he finally chose a loaf of bread, a packet of sliced ham, instant noodles, a can of beans. More coffee, and a six pack of beer. He paid for it all and then plodded back home. By the time he got back to his apartment he felt like he’d walked a thousand miles.

 

 

He put the food away haphazardly, grabbed one of the beers and collapsed onto the couch, swinging his feet up. Took a swallow of beer and stared up at the off-white ceiling.

His whole body felt like it did when he was coming down with some kind of virus: drained and heavy, with a soreness in his muscles like he’d done a hard workout. A headache starting to build between his temples like a thundercloud.

The beer tasted sour in his mouth and stayed sour when it reached his stomach. Zoro doggedly finished the bottle anyway. Thought about going and getting his stash and rolling a joint, but couldn’t motivate himself to get up off the couch. Instead he rolled onto his side, pillowing his head on one arm, and tried to turn his brain off enough to fall asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

By the time Kuina showed up for her promised visit, Zoro had been off the meth for five days.

The expression on her face when he opened the door of his apartment to her fell from a smile to a frown as soon as she saw him. “Ah... Hi.”

Zoro stepped back from the door, turning away and heading back to the couch. “Come in.”

 

 

Kuina followed him, closing the apartment door behind her. She was carrying a backpack, which she took off as she came to a halt beside the table. Her gaze rested on Zoro as he slumped back onto the couch. “How’s it going?” Zoro gave a listless shrug. Kuina’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You manage to stay off that stuff?”

“Yeah.”

Kuina looked at him for a moment... Then around the room. At the ashtray on the table, which was full again. The couple of empty beer bottles there. The rumpled bed in the corner. “So... What’ve you been doing?”

“Sleeping. Mostly.”

 

 

Kuina nodded slowly. “Okay. You been eating?”

“...Yeah.”

She regarded him narrowly, then strode into his kitchen area, taking her backpack with her. Zoro heard her open and close the refrigerator, and the cupboards. “ _Aho_... You ought to eat something real, not this junk. And cut back on the beer and the grass, they won’t help.”

“Better than nothing,” Zoro growled, feeling fierce irritation suddenly spike through the fatigue.

“No, they’re not.” Kuina reappeared in front of him, her face severe. “Your body chemistry’s gonna be totally out of whack for a while. Till it evens out, you need to do things that’ll help – not hit it with more stuff.”

“I said I’d quit meth. I didn’t say I was going totally fucking straight edge,” Zoro retorted.

 

 

Kuina fixed him with an unimpressed look. “You get high, you’re more likely to make stupid decisions when the craving gets really bad.”

“It’s pretty fucking bad right now. And I haven’t gone out and bought any.” Zoro glowered up at her.

“Good. Keep it up.” Kuina said this calmly, before gesturing towards the kitchen area. “I brought you over some food: _onigiri_. Figured you might not feel much like cooking.”

This was unexpected. The thought of Kuina making him food and then coming over to deliver it should make Zoro feel grateful, he knew: but all he could summon through the dark grey blankness that had settled over him was the word rather than the feeling. “...Thanks.”

“Make sure you eat it.” Kuina’s gaze rested back on him. “Hmm... I’m guessing you’re not gonna make it to kendo tomorrow night.”

 

 

Zoro wanted to argue, but couldn’t. Right now he could barely keep it together to sit up and follow her conversation, the mix of exhaustion and edginess swirling through him like a dry wind, sucking the energy out of him. “Guess not.”

“You been outside at all, the last couple of days?”

Lifting one hand and running his fingers into his hair, Zoro let out a heavy breath. “I told you... Mostly I’ve been sleeping.”

Kuina folded her arms. “Right. Put some shoes on. We’re going for a walk.”

Zoro let his hand drop down to rest on his thigh. “What the fuck for?”

“To get you out of this funky-smelling hole.” She jerked her head towards the door. “C’mon. It’ll do you good to move around, get some fresh air. You sit stewing in here by your lonesome, that’s not gonna make things any easier.”

 

 

 

 

 

Once they were outside on the street and walking, they fell into a silence for a while. Zoro mainly because just keeping upright and moving forwards was taking all of his concentration. The summer evening sunlight pushed harshly against his eyes, so that he had to half-close them. His whole body ached, the muscles in his back and shoulders pulled tight. And over everything hung the feeling of bone-tiredness and being on the edge: as if he was balancing on top of a dangerous height and the only way was down.

“It’s pretty bad, _ne?”_ Kuina said this quietly.

Zoro didn’t look at her. “I’m gonna do this.”

“Not what I asked.” She let out a slow breath. “Look... This is the worst part. Give it a couple of weeks, you’ll start to feel better. And in a month or two, you should be pretty much getting back to normal.”

_What the fuck is normal?_

Zoro didn’t make any reply to her. After a moment, Kuina spoke again. “I’ll come over again at the weekend.”

“I don’t need babysitting.” This came out hard: Zoro grit his teeth after he’d said it.

“Good, because that’s not what I’m doing.” Kuina’s voice grew harder too.

“So, what – you checking up on me?”

“No, _aho_. Just offering some support. This is tough thing to do on your own.”

“I can manage.”

“ _Mataku_... What is it with this bullshit lone wolf kick? What’s wrong with taking help when someone offers it to you?” Kuina scowled at him.

Zoro didn’t even bother answering that one. Instead he looked away, out into the street. Focussed on the traffic driving past; on other people walking by. On the sounds and the sights of life going on as if nothing was happening.

 

 

After a long hiatus, he heard Kuina sigh. “Okay. Whatever. But I’m coming by your place again at the weekend.”

As there was nothing he could do to stop this, Zoro let silence serve as his only acknowledgement.

 

 

 

 

 

The next three days were as bad as the ones that had preceded them. Zoro’s life felt like it had flipped on its head. Daytimes he struggled to stay awake, forcing himself out of bed only to wind up curled on the couch falling from one uncomfortable nap to another... While at nights he lay awake, wired and sweating and feeling his skin crawl.

Not being able to go to kendo on Friday evening tipped his already shitty mood lower. On Saturday afternoon Zoro had had enough: raided his drawer and took a couple of Xannies, wanting just to be out cold for a few hours.

The benzos put him down, but not far enough. He fell into a heavy haze instead of proper sleep, that wore off in the early hours of Sunday morning and left him feeling more strung out than ever.

 

 

By the time Kuina showed up in the early afternoon, Zoro had gotten through the half-bottle of Jack and a good portion of his remaining weed and was lying on the couch with music playing on random shuffle on his phone, trying to drown out the noise in his head with external decibels. It took a while for him to hear the knocking on his apartment door: when he finally got up and opened it, Kuina was standing there looking unamused.

“Finally.” She stepped inside as he turned away, closing the door behind herself. “ _Che_... This place stinks like a wino’s armpit.”

“Feel free to go somewhere else.” Zoro dropped back down onto the couch, lying flat to stare at the ceiling again.

 

 

Kuina’s head appeared in his line of sight, leaning over him. “Uh-uh. Get up. We’re going for a walk.”

“I’m good here.”

She pulled a disgusted expression. “Yeah, you look it.” Her head moved away, and after a few seconds Zoro heard the clink of his empty whiskey bottle being picked up. “Damn it...” Another pause, then Kuina’s face reappeared above his. “Getting wasted isn’t going to help.”

“I’m not fucking wasted.” Zoro wished he was.

Kuina sat down on the couch, shoving him over with a hard nudge of her hip. “Between the whiskey fumes and the grass, I’m getting a contact high just being this close to you.”

“So go be elsewhere.”

“Nope.” She folded her arms, frowning. “C’mon. Get your ass off this couch and let’s go.”

 

 

Zoro slid his arm over his eyes, blocking her out. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”

“You need to get some daylight. You look like a vampire.”

“Yeah, well... I feel like the fucking living dead.”

“It’ll get better.”

“Great.” Zoro couldn’t imagine this. Not least because before he’d started using meth, his life had pretty much sucked on a daily basis... So he wasn’t exactly looking forward to returning to that baseline.

 

 

Kuina’s hand closed round his arm, lifting it away: Zoro found himself looking up into her gaze. “Hey. You really want to do this?”

“I am fucking doing it.” Zoro twitched his arm free. “That’s why I feel like shit.”

“If you’re gonna kick this stuff and stay off it, you need to find a better way of dealing with things than anaesthetising yourself.”

“Works for me.” Zoro gave her a humourless grin.

“There’s no point quitting meth if you just get bombed on something else.” Kuina shook her head.

“You telling me you never drink? Or smoke weed?”

“Oh geez, is this ever not about me.” She regarded him levelly. “Where’s your stash?”

“Huh?”

 

 

Kuina stood up and looked around the room... Before marching towards the set of drawers near his bed, and pulling the top one open.

Zoro sat up. “Hey!”

Rummaging through the clothing in the drawer, Kuina unearthed his stash of grass and the baggie of Xanax. Turning back to face him, she held them up. “Say goodbye to your little friends.”

“The fuck - ” Zoro started to get up, but Kuina was quicker. She moved to the door and was through it before he’d got past the table.

Spitting out curses, Zoro grabbed his trainers and pulled them on, before taking off after her.

 

 

Kuina had enough of a lead that Zoro could only just see her, jogging purposely down the street. He broke into a run in pursuit, weaving between other passers-by. She was no mean athlete and he was all kinds of fucked, so after about a minute it started to feel less like a chase and more like some form of torture, but Zoro kept going out of sheer fury.

Kuina ducked round a corner and went out of sight, so Zoro had to put on a burst of speed to catch up. When he eventually rounded the corner and spotted her, she was leaning nonchalantly against a wall, arms folded.

As he approached she smiled at him, but Zoro was in no mood to be pacified. “Give me my fucking stuff!”

Kuina spread her hands to emphasise their emptiness. “What stuff?”

Zoro looked around their immediate vicinity. No sign of anything. “What the fuck did you do with it?”

“Tossed it.” Kuina shrugged.

_“Where?”_

“Nowhere you’ll find it,” she predicted confidently.

 

 

Zoro cast his gaze around where they were standing again. A storm drain in the street. A large dumpster in a nearby alley. A low building that something small could easily have been tossed up onto the roof of.

Kuina watched him working all this out. “Or maybe I pitched it into the back of a passing pick-up. That would be the coolest solution.”

Turning back to her, Zoro felt rage filling him up like dark smoke. He took a single step into her space, pushing his face close to hers. “ _Kono ama!”_

Kuina didn’t move a muscle. “ _Neboken ja-neyo.”_

 

 

Zoro’s left arm lifted, hand already clenched into a fist – and Kuina’s arm moved too, even quicker. She deflected his blow with a swift movement, not breaking her eye contact with him. “Stop.”

His hand fell away. Then Zoro was standing staring into Kuina’s eyes, breathing hard, shakes running through him, every muscle knotted tight. Because he wanted to hit her, needed to hit someone, something. And if he couldn’t hit Kuina then the wall instead, he wanted to drive his fist into the bricks until it came away bloody, break himself, break the world. Wanted to feel the pain instead of feeling like this: on the edge, tipping over, out of control.

“Stop.” This time Kuina said it quietly. But her eyes still held his.

 

 

A breath shook out of Zoro. Then his arm lifted again but instead of hitting out he moved sideways, pressed his hand against the wall and leaned against it, letting his head hang down. Staring down at his feet and feeling the shakes run through him, the sweat sticking his t-shirt to his back, the knot tight in his stomach.

Kuina spoke again, in the same quiet voice. “It’s going to get better.”

Zoro found himself letting out a ragged breath. “You don’t know that.”

“I’ve seen other people quit. It’s always like this at first. But after a couple of weeks, it starts to get easier. You’ll start to feel better.”

 

 

Zoro shut his eyes. Let his forehead rest against his arm. “And then what?”

“And then... You get on with your life.”

Letting out a harsh half-laugh, Zoro straightened up. Wiped his arm across his face, before turning and letting his shoulders thump back against the wall. Leaning against it for support. “Right.”

Kuina looked sideways at him. “Y’know. All that everyday stuff that people do. Sleep; get up; eat breakfast; go to work. Hang out with friends at weekends.” She got a small smile on her face. “Do kendo.”

 

 

Zoro let his head rest back against the wall too. “Right now I can’t even chase after you down the street without feeling like I’m gonna drop.”

“Because you’re going through cold turkey. Plus, mixing up whiskey and dope and benzos... Not exactly surprising you’re feeling like shit.” Kuina let out a sigh. “But I told you already: this is the worst part. You’ll come out the other side. By next Friday you should be okay to come to kendo class.”

That felt like one small glimmer of light, but a long way off. “Your dad wonder where I was, last Friday night?”

“Mm, he mentioned it.” Kuina gave him a small smile. “He notices stuff like that.”

Somehow that felt like another glimmer of light. Albeit a small one.

 

 

Kuina spoke again. “How’d you handle things at work? You call in sick or something?”

“Huh... No.” Zoro let out a heavy breath. “The guy I work for... It’s not that kind of a job. Just labouring, yard work, shit like that. He probably just figured I blew work off for a week.”

“Does that mean you can just go back to work when you feel up to it?”

 “I’ll go back tomorrow.”

 “You said a minute ago that just running down the street you were about to drop,” Kuina pointed out.

“So I’ll work slowly.” Zoro gave her a grim smile. “I may as well be out shifting turf. I’m climbing the fucking walls staying in my apartment.”

Kuina gave a slow nod. “...Okay.”

 

 

 

 

 

When the alarm went off on his phone the next morning at five a.m., Zoro almost reconsidered his decision. But the thought of spending another long day caged in his room held zero appeal.

Hernandez appeared to buy Zoro’s explanation of having been sick; Carrillo didn’t seem to care either way, as long as he had two bodies to do the heavy lifting. Zoro sweated through the day, focussing on the end of it as a way of keeping going.

When he finally returned to his apartment in the early evening he was exhausted, brain-dead with every muscle aching. He managed to stay awake long enough to eat, before crawling into bed and pulling his pillow over his head to block out the fading summer daylight. Before waking the next morning to the sound of his alarm, to do it all again.

 

 

Somehow Zoro made it through the week to Friday evening. Took a shower and got his kendo gear together, even though he could have crashed out there and then and slept the weekend through.

He was late getting to the community centre, kendo class starting as he walked into the gym hall. Zoro saw Kuina give him a single quick glance from where she was already kneeling ready for mokuso.

After class she was waiting for him, leaning against the wall outside the centre entrance. “Hey. How’s it going?”

Zoro gave a slight shrug. “Okay.”

 

 

Kuina studied him. “You made it through week two. That ought to be the worst part over with.”

“Yeah.” Zoro didn’t want to hear any more motivational speeches. “Great.”

“ _Chichi_   was pleased to see you back.” Kuina gave him a small smile. “He asked me last time if I knew why you didn’t show up.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“That maybe you were sick.” She folded her arms. “Think he bought it.”

 

 

Zoro nodded. And wished that just for once, he didn’t have to lie to Koshiro about what his life actually looked like. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Kuina smiled again. “You looked like you were managing okay in there tonight.”

Kendo class had felt like an uphill struggle physically, but to be able to spend a couple of hours focussing on technique instead of thinking about how shit he felt had been a welcome distraction. “Yeah, well... I’ll do better next week.”

“That guy you said you do day labouring for... He ever expect you to work evenings?”

 

 

Zoro wondered why Kuina wanted to know. “Nope.”

“So... Think you might want to get together for jigeiko, sometime?” She tipped her head slightly, looking at him. “Y’know. Get some extra practice in.”

It was an unexpected offer. “With you?”

Kuina let out a snort. “No, _aho,_ with the Easter Bunny. Of course with me.”

Glancing at the community centre, Zoro frowned. “You mean here?”

“I’ve got a friend plays drums, he and his band rehearse in this warehouse space his dad rents out. Sometimes I use it for practicing iaido... And it’s big enough to fight shiai in.” She shrugged. “They’re only using it a couple of nights a week. We could meet up there early evening, it’s not far from my school.”

Her suggestion felt like some small handhold on the slippery cliff that loomed in the blank grey landscape of Zoro’s future. He nodded slowly. “Okay... Yeah. That’d be cool.”

 

 

Kuina smiled. Before adding, “But you better work on your kihon-geiko. Some of your waza looked a little sloppy, back in there.”

Zoro narrowed his eyes. “You figure?”

“You want to start learning iaido, you need to get on top of this stuff. Be able to execute every move one hundred per cent right, one hundred per cent of the time. Nothing less.” Kuina folded her arms across her chest. “ _Chichi_ will tell you the same thing.”

Suspecting that she was telling the truth, Zoro bit back the retort he wanted to make. “Fine. I’ll practice.” Hefting his kendo bag on his shoulder, he turned away to go.

“Wednesday night for jigeiko, then. Okay?” Kuina’s voice followed him. “Six o’clock. I’ll text you the address.”

“Okay.” Zoro looked back long enough to nod at her. Then walked away.

 

 

 

 

 

The following day was Saturday so Zoro didn’t have to get up for work, but his sleep patterns were still totally out of whack. He woke before dawn and lay in bed gazing at the cracks in the ceiling, trying and failing to fall back asleep.

There were things he needed to do over the weekend, so he did them: shopping for food, running a load of laundry, giving his apartment a half-hearted straightening up.

As the day wore on he found himself feeling increasingly restless: wired to the point he pushed himself to go out for a run.

 

 

It wasn’t until he was back in his room, standing in the shower with his eyes shut and wishing for the hundredth time that the dull fatigue that filled him would either clear or take him all the way under, that Zoro realised where he would ordinarily be on this Saturday night.

Fighting at the club.

He shut the water off and towelled himself dry, got dressed. Drifted back to the main room and sat heavily on the couch. Thought about drinking a beer, or six. Thought too about Kuina clearing out his stash a week previous.

 

 

The restlessness still hummed in his body, making it hard to keep still. And suddenly a wave of craving swept through him, so strong Zoro felt the sweat come onto his skin.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

 

 

He stared at the table in front of him, its surface bare. Feeling his hands clenching into fists where they rested on his knees, nails biting into his palms.

_Why am I doing this?_

The question came clear and unsummoned, into his brain. And for long moments, Zoro had no answer. His life sucked. He spent the week doing back-breaking shit-work, with no obvious alternative; returning each night to this tiny apartment that he was now going to struggle to pay rent on, without the money he made from fighting. He’d dropped out of school, so he had no chance of landing a job any better than what he did now. The only things he’d ever been good at were fighting and kendo: and he couldn’t go and fight because the club meant having cash in his hand and the opportunity to score meth.

Even as he had this thought, he saw himself doing it. Exchanging a few notes for a baggie of shards, walking back here and prepping a couple of lines, lifting himself up out of the dark pit he felt like he was stuck at the bottom of. And in that moment he wanted to do it. Stand up and walk out the door, go to the club and get a fight and get hooked up, do what every part of him craved.

 

 

_\- You need to find a better way of dealing with things than anaesthetising yourself._

It wasn’t just the meth. Before he’d ever had his first hit, way back at that party at Shibata’s place, Zoro had found something else that lifted him up. That made him feel he actually had some control, over a life that had been falling over a cliff since that November day two years ago; when he’d got back to the apartment and found his uncle gone.

When Zoro won that first fight in Takenaka’s club, everything had changed. And every time he’d fought there and won again, the feeling was the same. Unleashing the smoking fury inside, channelling it through his fists and his body, beating the universe until it gave in. Being the one still standing, after the wave had washed over him.

He’d started fighting for the money, but he kept going back for that feeling. Tuning out the onlooking crowd, the chants of _Oni! Oni!_ ; not remembering at the faces of his opponents. Just letting go and not coming back to the thinking place until the other man was bloody on the floor.

 

 

Zoro’s fists ached. He could feel sweat sliding down his neck: cold on his skin.

_Stop thinking      Stop remembering_

He couldn’t find a way through this. A direction, something to follow that would lead him somewhere, _anywhere._  A light at the end of what felt like an unending dark tunnel.

 

 

_\- It’d totally suck if you gave up kendo now. You’re getting pretty good._

_\- I’m not planning on giving up._

 

 

He’d said it. And he’d meant it.

 

 

_\- Your dad ever say how I’m doing?_

_\- He thinks you’re doing pretty good, too._

 

 

Slowly, Zoro felt his fists unclench. He tried to notice only his breathing, slowing it down. In. Out.

 

 

_\- I’m not quitting kendo!_

_\- Good. Then choose. Quit the other shit._

 

 

The room felt still. Moving precisely, Zoro pushed back the table in front of him, creating a space in front of the couch. He slid down to kneel on the floor, in seiza. Found a point on the floor a few feet away to focus his gaze on. Brought his hands together against his lap, fingers resting curled on top of each other, thumbs just touching to form the circle of the mudra. Focussed on each breath: the coolness of the air moving into his lungs; the warmth leaving his body.

Kneeling in mokuso, he felt the unmanageable hours and days stretching ahead of him blur. His awareness shifting to the here and now. This moment. The next moment. Breathing in; breathing out.

_I can do this._

One moment at a time.

 

 

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

 

Days clean of meth stretched into weeks. And like Kuina had predicted, it got easier. The fierce cravings came less often; and when they did, Zoro rode them out.

His body was still adjusting, alternating bursts of restlessness with days where all he wanted to do was sleep. His mood sometimes got stuck in a low that seemed unshakeable. Kendo practice and going running helped, and also boosted his appetite which had started to return.

He and Kuina met up every Wednesday night for jigeiko, at the warehouse space where her punk musician friends rehearsed. It was good to have the extra practice, but despite his best efforts Zoro still couldn’t get the drop on her.

 

 

After a particularly frustrating couple of hours one week where he’d tried and failed to land a single good strike on her – and taken several in return – they’d decided to call it a night. Zoro moved to the edge of the space and started taking off his bōgu, keeping his gaze downturned.

“Oi... Stop sulking.” Kuina came to stand beside him, also unfastening her bōgu. “You didn’t do so bad.”

Zoro didn’t want her sympathy. “You ran fucking circles round me. Again.”

She clicked her tongue. “You just need to keep practicing.”

“It wouldn’t matter if I practiced every night.” Zoro bent down and picked up his shinai. Suddenly feeling something raw breaking open inside him, the familiar flare of anger that kept surfacing ever since he’d quit the meth. “You’ve been doing this forever. Your dad’s our sensei - you’ve had him teaching you since you were a kid.”

“So?” Kuina’s reply had an edge to it.

“So you have a big fucking advantage over the rest of us. That’s why you’re always ten steps ahead. And that’s why you have a great time kicking my ass up and down this room every week!”

 

 

There was a moment of deadly silence. When Kuina spoke again, her voice was coldly furious. “You are such a bad loser.”

“Fuck you.” Zoro grabbed his bōgu and turned to leave.

“Want to know something? Before you go?” Kuina’s steely tones held him back. “Or do you want to just flounce off feeling sorry for yourself?”

Swinging back to face her, Zoro gave her a scowl. “You don’t know shit about how I feel.”

“There’s a coincidence. You don’t know shit about how things are for me, either.”

 

 

They glared at each other for a full minute. Before Kuina spoke again. “I got this good at kendo by _working_ at it. I didn’t get any special treatment from my dad. And yeah, sure: he’s probably the best teacher I could have, and he’s taught me a lot. But you know what he did on my tenth birthday?”

“Gave you a gift-wrapped shinai?” Zoro responded, as sarcastically as he could manage.

“No, asshole.” Kuina put her fists on her hips. “He sat me down and explained to me that although he was proud of how well I was doing at kendo, I should stop fighting in jigeiko with boys. Because women can’t compete with men on an equal footing. And then he told me I needed to think about what else I wanted to do with my life.”

There was a moment of quiet. Kuina shook her head slightly. “I mean, up to that point, I hadn’t even questioned it. I’d just assumed that I was going to go to the World Kendo Championship, be the Women’s Individual Champion one day. And _then_ I was going to change all the rules: be the one who showed all those traditionalists in the FIK that women  can compete with men at championship level. Compete and _win._ I was going to be the first woman kendōka to fight a man in the WKC, and beat him. And I thought that my dad would help me do that.”

 

 

Zoro looked at her. “You tell him that?”

“Yes. On my tenth birthday. And he said, ‘You can be the best _woman_ kendōka. But you cannot change how you are made. Men are simply stronger than women.’ ” Kuina let out a hard breath. “I remember how it felt. Like he’d slapped me.”

There was a pause. When Kuina started speaking again, her voice was quiet. “After that, I always felt like I would never be good enough. Because I was a girl, not a boy. Even if I beat every boy in our dojo, I knew what my dad thought: that women weren’t as strong as men. If I’d been his son instead of his daughter, everything would have been different. But I was a girl: so competing in women’s kendo was what I should settle for. Second best.”

 

 

For the first time, Zoro felt something towards his sensei that was less than positive. Looking at Kuina: seeing all that fire and determination checked. He recalled suddenly how he’d felt that day at the community festival, watching Koshiro and Kuina exchange smiles. That dark hollow feeling in his chest, of emptiness that nothing could fill.

He found his voice. “Bullshit.”

Kuina’s head lifted: she met his angry gaze with one of her own. “What?”

“What your dad told you. It’s fucking bullshit.” He saw a frown pull his friend’s brows together. “So he’s your old man: so what. Whatever he thinks: that’s just his opinion. And he’s wrong, all the way.”

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is, he doesn’t think I can do it.”

“Hell with that. What matters is, you think you can do it.” Zoro held her gaze. “You want this. So don’t let _anyone,_ your dad included, stop you from going after it. You let someone get in your head and make you quit going after what you want, you may as well roll over and die. Believe what he said and sooner or later you’ll get your fucking ass kicked, by me and by every other opponent you go up against. Because you gave up on yourself and _let_ your dad be right. Because you became a shit kendōka who deserved to lose.”

 

 

Kuina’s mouth opened into an _O_. Before she swung out with one hand and slapped Zoro hard across the face.

She put some effort into the blow: his head was jolted sideways. When he turned his face back to meet her gaze, the skin of his cheek stung.

“Asshole.” Kuina ground this from between clenched teeth. “I haven’t given up. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

Zoro let a wry smile come onto his face. “...No shit.”

 

 

They stayed like that for a moment, regarding each other. Until Kuina released a heavy breath. “You are so fucking annoying.”

“This coming from the girl who threw away my stash,” Zoro rejoined.

“Next time in jigeiko I am going to make you suffer.”

“More than usual? That’s gonna be tough.”

There was a beat of silence... Then, at last, Kuina let out a low laugh. “Hah... I make it my eighty-ninth win against you, tonight. We ought to celebrate when I reach a hundred.”

“Or next time maybe I beat _your_ ass, instead.”

“Dream on, loser.”

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

Meth-free weeks turned into months. Zoro began learning iaido, under Koshiro’s tuition; practicing that with Kuina as well as kendo, in the echoing warehouse space once a week. The two of them silently moving through their kata, tuning in to the rhythm of their breathing, the flow of their movements.

One day Zoro happened to let slip to Kuina that money was tight: a week later, Koshiro told him that the community centre needed a janitor to clean up three nights during the week, and offered to put in a word for him. Zoro got the job, and along with his day labouring work it brought in enough that he could just cover his rent and other outgoings.

His life started to fall into a new pattern. Working during the week; practicing with Kuina Wednesday night; kendo class Friday evenings. Kicking back at the weekend, sleeping in and going to the occasional music gig with Kuina. Reading the kendo books that Koshiro kept lending him. Running on the evenings he wasn’t working.

 

 

He was running when it happened. Halfway through a route he often took, cutting downtown and heading through the park before circling round back to his apartment.

Zoro had just crossed a road, speeding up a little as he regained the sidewalk: saw a quieter side street and decided to take a detour down it instead of sticking to the main drag.

Big fucking mistake.

 

 

He ran past a row of small stores and take-out eateries; was just drawing level with the doorway of what looked like a bar when someone stepped out through it onto the sidewalk with his back turned, too suddenly for Zoro to swerve round him.

His shoulder smacked into the other guy’s and Zoro jolted to a halt, pausing on the sidewalk and turning back. “Hey – sorry - ” Then he stopped dead.

The guy standing on the sidewalk, looking at him with anything but a friendly expression, was Kazuo.

 

 

_Fuck, no –_

 

 

Zoro saw Kazuo’s eyes widen with recognition, just a little: then the other man let out a hard breath. “Well. Look who it is. Long time no see, Roronoa.”

There was no reply to this, so Zoro didn’t make any. Found himself backing up half a step on the sidewalk – then stopped, because that wouldn’t work.

Kazuo folded his arms, regarding him. “Been busy?”

“Yeah.” Zoro didn’t elaborate. Hoping this would be enough.

 

 

Kazuo regarded him sceptically. “You go from showing up every two weeks at the club, to dropping off the face of the planet... Some of the guys figured maybe you got into some shit you couldn’t handle, that someone iced your ass.” He let one corner of his mouth lift, in a derisive smile. “Looks like they were wrong.”

Zoro felt the old familiar mocking sting then. And felt his own expression harden, settling into stony blankness. “Disappointed?”

“About seeing you again? Why would I be?” Kazuo let out a snort. “One of my best customers. But I guess you found another source, _ne?”_  His eyes studied the youth. “You must be getting your shit elsewhere these days... Bet it’s not as good.”

“I’m not getting that shit from anyone. I kicked it.” Zoro gave a single hard shake of his head.

Kazuo widened his eyes again, this time in deliberately mocking incredulousness. “Yeah? What happened, you find religion or some shit like that?”

“I quit. End of.” Zoro wanted to walk away. From this conversation, from Kazuo. Even just seeing the enforcer was bringing it all back.

_He’s probably carrying a couple of g on him right now._

 

 

Kazuo unfolded his arms and slid one hand into his pocket: Zoro felt his guts clench. But when the enforcer’s hand came out again he was holding a pack of cigarettes. Slowly he pulled one out and lit it: inhaled and blew out a stream of smoke, before returning his gaze to Zoro. “So. You quit.” His eyes were hard now. That cold black gaze that Zoro remembered too well. “Quit fighting, too?”

Zoro’s throat felt tight. “...Yeah.”

“Sure about that?”

“Yeah.”

 

 

Kazuo took another pull on his cigarette, narrowing his eyes. “My boss didn’t like it when you stopped showing up for club nights. You were one of his best fighters.”

“He’ll get over it.” Zoro didn’t care what Takenaka felt. And let that show in his voice.

The enforcer’s dark gaze fixed on him. “That what you’d like me to tell him?”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“No?” Kazuo raised an eyebrow, before lifting his cigarette to his lips and drawing in until the end glowed red. When he spoke again, his words rode on grey smoke. “I think if I told him what you just said, he’d tell me to find you and fuck you up good. You give a shit about that?”

 

 

Zoro said nothing. Held the other man’s gaze and felt the knot in his guts wind tight, and with it the anger rising up, a dark hot flame. And with it a determination: that he wasn’t going to back off from this asshole. Now or ever again.

Kazuo held the silence too, for a moment... Then gave a small shrug. “You want to quit fighting ‘cos you’ve lost your balls, that’s your loss. But you talk about the club, to anyone, _kisama_ \- ” His face hardened. “I’ll come find you. _Bukkorosu._ ”

“Like I’d want to talk about that shit-hole.” Zoro could feel sweat gathering between his shoulder blades, but knew the only way to deal with Kazuo was to face him out. “I won’t tell anyone about your boss’s club, don’t worry.”

“I never worry.” The enforcer flicked ash from his cigarette. “But you run that smartass mouth off, you’re the one who’ll need to worry.”

 

 

Zoro took a slow, deliberate breath in. “Are we done?”

Kazuo released a dismissive _huff_ of smoke. “Fuck. Yeah. Run away, _gaki_. You bump into me again, I won’t be so forgiving.”

_Fuck you, asshole._

 

 

Zoro was smarter than to say this out loud. He took a single step sideways, before turning on his heel and setting off down the sidewalk at a run. Feeling Kazuo’s presence behind him like a dangerous dog. As if at any moment he was going to feel jaws closing on him.

But nothing happened. He ran on, until he reached the main street. Ran home, where he showered and pulled on a clean t-shirt and jeans. Fixed himself some instant noodles and sat on the couch to eat, with a beer. And found himself sitting motionless, food going cold in the bowl: fingers clenched so tightly on the neck of the bottle that they ached.

_\- You talk about the club, to anyone, kisama: I’ll come find you. Bukkorosu._

 

 

Maybe Kazuo had just been talking shit. Acting like he was the big bad, and wanting Zoro to bow down accordingly. Or maybe his threat was for real. Whatever else Takenaka was, he was Kazuo’s boss: and someone like Kazuo wasn’t likely to be working for a guy who dealt with problems by diplomatic methods.

Zoro had quit the drugs, and quit fighting. Like he said to Kazuo: end of. Accidentally running into the enforcer that evening had been a shock, but he’d gotten away with it. And Zoro didn’t plan on talking to anyone, about his time fighting in the club. _Ever._

 

 

His hand slowly unclenched, fingers relaxing slightly; Zoro lifted his beer and took a swig. Let his head rest against the back of the couch, feeling suddenly tired.

_\- Run away, gaki._

He was done running. His life so far had mostly been a clusterfuck, but finally he was starting to get on top of the chaos. And no-one, especially not a piece of shit like Kazuo, was going to push him under again.

Zoro took another swallow of beer, then sat up and reached for his bowl of noodles. Figuring the best way to untie the knot in his stomach was to fill it with something. And it pretty much worked.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes (Japanese):  
> okama = gay man (especially effeminate gay man, drag queen etc)  
> masaka = no way!  
> atarimae = well duh / obviously  
> mataku = good grief (expression of annoyance)  
> kono ama = you bitch  
> neboken ja-neyo = get your head out of your ass  
> bukkorosu = I'll beat the shit out of you and kill you
> 
> Translation notes (Spanish):  
> hermana = sister  
> chido = cool, great  
> cansado = tired, beat  
> ¿Que no? = Not so? / Am I right?  
> güey = dumbass (literally 'ox') / man, guy
> 
>  
> 
> Kicking a drug habit or beating addiction of any sort is an unbelievably hard thing to do. And a big part of what helps people get clean and stay clean is having some kind of meaningful and positive stuff in their life. Not to mention someone in their life who cares about them enough to tell them to get their shit together, in no uncertain terms.
> 
> For those of you who are staying with me on this angsty fic in the AWC series, big thanks. Reading your comments and feedback really helps motivate me to keep writing. You're all lovely and I'm guiltily enjoying making you all read a bunch of really grim stuff. <3 :-)


	7. Snake-Fighting Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their katana slammed into each other; and Zoro swept both their blades down and flicked hers sideways, before bringing his sword back across hard, aiming for Kuina’s neck.
> 
> “Yame!”
> 
> Kuina's shout cut through the air, louder than the clash of their blades that had preceded it. And then they were standing face to face, Kuina holding Zoro's katana off with her own, her arms braced. Her eyes shocked and furious.
> 
> Zoro felt his own arms drop. The response to the sound of that command word ingrained into him from hours of kendo training. He pulled a single breath in. And the world came back. His friend staring at him, her face white, brows drawn down into angry lines.
> 
> They stepped back from each other, lowering their katana. Each sliding their blade back into its sheath. Before Kuina said, slowly and in an unsteady voice, “What the actual fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: graphic violence

 

* * *

 

 

 _No time to waste,  now I can’t back away_  
_Pain is what they use     as a bait to tame me_  
_I’m just a snake-fighting snake_  
_Anyone wants to see me dying_  
_Go get the ticket, it costs you only your soul_

_\- Ellegarden_

* * *

 

 

 

_(One year later)_

 

Zoro closed his hand firmly around the hilt of his katana. His eyes focused ahead as he drew the sword smoothly from its sheath and swept it swiftly, left to right. Stepping one foot forward, he brought his other hand to the katana’s hilt in a double-handed grip, before slicing the bright blade down in a brutal arc of silver.

Silence stretched around him as he brought his katana back; then gave it a single sharp flick to the side. His gaze stayed steady, unwavering; then he turned the sword and drew it deftly between finger and thumb, before sliding the blade back into its sheath.

 

 

The silence held as he stood motionless for a moment; then he knelt, and drew his sheathed katana from his belt. Laying it carefully on the floor, Zoro bowed to his katana; before standing again and replacing it at its belt, then slowly bowing to his audience.

A moment later, the watching crowd broke out into enthusiastic applause. Zoro turned and walked off the stage, descending the steps at its side down to the street.

 

 

Kuina was standing a few yards away, with her father. As Zoro approached them, she gave him a grin. “Not too shabby.”

“Thanks.” Zoro let a wry smile lift up one corner of his mouth... But his gaze moved to where Koshiro stood, next to his daughter.

His sensei smiled warmly. “Very good. Your _mae_ and _kesa giri_ were perfectly executed.” He emphasised his approval with a small nod.

 

 

That nod and smile meant way more than the applause of the onlookers Zoro had just given his iaido demonstration to. “Thank you, sensei.”

“I think the audience enjoyed your display.” Koshiro nodded again. “And Kuina’s. I’ve already been asked by two people about the possibility of their learning iaido. And the kendo demonstration earlier also attracted a great deal of interest.”

“More newbies tripping over their own feet in the dojo? Great.” Kuina pulled a face: then when her father raised one eyebrow and gave her a look, she looked slightly contrite. “Sorry, _otosan_. I know it’s good more people are getting into it.”

“Even you were a new kendōka, once.” Koshiro folded his arms. “And need I remind you of some of the errors you made, during your early days?”

“Absolutely not.” Kuina shook her head emphatically, shooting a sidelong glance at Zoro. “Ah... Can we go now?”

His father’s mouth twitched up at one corner. “I suppose so. But remember you’re due to sit at our dojo’s information table between three and four o’clock.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be there to take our turn.” Kuina nodded at her father, before turning away and signalling at Zoro with a small jerk of her head away from the stage. “Want to go grab a drink?”

 

 

They quickly found a concession stand selling drinks, amongst the assorted stalls promoting various cultural interests. The Asian community street festival had been popular: since late morning the small square had been busy with people sampling the different cuisines being offered, and watching the various displays and performances of martial arts, dance and music scheduled on the stage that had been set up at one side of the open space.

Kuina took a swig from her bottle of water, and let out a sigh. “Wow, that’s better. It’s way too hot today, to be wearing this get-up.” Her finger and thumb pinched a fold of her white cotton keikogi, and gave it a tug. “Can’t wait to get out of this stuff.”

“We’re done entertaining the masses,” Zoro responded, twisting the cap off his own bottle of water. “You could go change now if you want.”

 

 

Kuina let air escape through pursed lips. “Good idea. I’ll just down this, then we can ditch the ninja outfits.”

Zoro lifted his water and drank, long swallows that ran cool down his throat. Lowering it again he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then nodded towards the stage. “Anything you figure’ll be worth watching on there, later?”

His friend shrugged. “Maybe the aikido demonstration at five o’clock. Then there’s the taiko drummers later on.”

“Taiko drumming?” Zoro snorted. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Kuina laughed. “You badmouthing our glorious cultural heritage?”

“It sounds like a garbage can of rocks rolling down a staircase.”

“I like it.”

“Yeah. And you also like The Predators.” Zoro gave her a mocking sidelong grin. “Go figure.”

“Excuse me: wasn’t there some asshole dancing like a crazy person to _Recall Me_ , at Yuichi’s party last month? Oh yeah: that’d be you.”

Finishing his water and tossing the empty bottle into a nearby trashcan, Zoro shrugged. “Don’t remember that. I’d had a lot to drink.”

“No shit.” Kuina rolled her eyes.

 

 

Their artistic debate was cut short when a slender Japanese girl wearing a black crop-top and tight black jeans approached and came to a halt in front of Zoro. She gave him a big smile. “Hi... I just wanted to say, I watched you doing iaido. You were really good up there.”

“Thanks,” Zoro responded neutrally.

“It looked so cool.” Her smile tried to draw him in. “Is it really difficult to do?”

“Well, you have to remember which end of the katana to hold,” Zoro answered, straight-faced.

“Uh... Right.” The girl looked slightly confused.

 

 

Beside Zoro, Kuina let out a snort. “If you’re interested in learning, my dad gives lessons.” When the girl’s gaze switched to her, Kuina pointed towards one side of the square. “He has an information stall over there: Isshin Dojo. Tell him I sent you over.” She gave the girl a predatory smile. “He teaches kendo too. Come along to a class, I’ll show you some moves.”

“That’s... Ah...” The girl’s eyes widened, just a little, as she glanced from Zoro to Kuina; then she backed off. “Sure... Thanks.”

They watched her go. The girl walked away quickly: not in the direction that Kuina had indicated.

 

 

“Totally lame,” Kuina commented, watching her disappear.

“Somehow, I think you didn’t just successfully attract your dad a new kendo student.”

“The only thing she was interested in studying was you, horizontally. Minus your hakama.”

Zoro laughed. “Then she’s shit out of luck.”

“Because she’s never gonna have that experience? I’d say she had narrow escape.” Kuina smirked at him.

“Hey: can I help it, if chicks find the sight of a guy swinging a big sword irresistible?”

Kuina snorted. “You might want to rephrase that sentence. Anyway... it wasn’t just you busting moves up there. I was the one people were _really_ watching.”

“How you figure that?”

“Cool chick with a sword?” Kuina gestured grandly towards herself, then flicked her hand disparagingly at Zoro. “Scowling asshole with a lack of finesse?”

“Your dad didn’t think so.”

“Yeah. I’ve been worrying about his failing eyesight lately.”

Letting out a breath, Zoro shook his head. “Fuck... You are so full of it.”

“Hey: can I help it, if spectators find the sight of my flawless iaido a total turn-on?” Kuina smiled smugly.

This time it was Zoro’s turn to roll his eyes. “Whatever.”

 

 

Taking another swallow of her drink, Kuina let out a contented sigh. “But for the record... You did okay, up there today.”

“Wow; thanks.” Zoro replied sarcastically. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

“Soak it up,” she rejoined. “I won’t always be so nice to you.”

“I’ll treasure this moment,” Zoro deadpanned. He paused a moment; before adding, “Your dad seemed like he thought we did an okay job, too.”

“Mm-hm. I think he wasn’t too sure about letting us put on that _kenjutsu_ display... But it blew the audience away.”

“Yeah.” Zoro recalled the fixed attention of the onlookers as he and Kuina had sparred together with wooden _bokken,_ before they’d gone on to do their solo iaido demonstrations with actual katana. “Think he’ll let us do a _kenjutsu_ display with real katana next time?”

 

 

“No way.” Kuina turned her gaze on him, suddenly sober. “Don’t even ask. He’d read us the riot act.”

“So you don’t plan on telling him any time soon, that the last couple months you and me have been sparring with our katana?”

“Are you totally insane? He’d freak.” Kuina grimaced. “I told you: we can practice like that as long as no-one knows about it. It gets back to _chichi_ that we’re fighting each other with live blades, he’ll ground me till I’m a hundred and ten. And he’ll make you commit _seppuku_.”

“You think he’d be that pissed about it?”

“I know he would.”

“So how come you’re doing it?”

Her face broke into a crafty smile. “Because I totally get off on it.”

 

 

Zoro smiled too. “Yeah. Figured as much.”

“Like you don’t.” Kuina nodded towards the katana that he was still wearing on his hip. “Ever since you got that thing you’ve been jonesing for every chance you can get to play with it.”

Letting his left hand rest on the katana’s hilt, Zoro thought about how good it had felt when the sword had finally arrived, long months after he’d started saving up the money to buy it. It was no heirloom or valuable antique like Wado Ichimonji: but the Iwa Shobu was top quality steel with a bright _choji_ hamon that caught the light like lightning crackling against a grey sky. The hilt and lacquered sheath were black: when he and Kuina sparred together the yin and yang of their katana moved around each other, light and darkness.

Kuina clucked her tongue. “Tchh... We’re in a public place, idiot. You can stroke your sword when you get home.”

 

 

Zoro snorted before looking away from her, across the crowded square. Keeping his hand on his katana. And not really giving a shit if this implied he had a stereotypical male obsession with phallic weapons. Being gay gave him an advantage in this respect: he had no problem with people implying he was dick-fixated. It kind of went with the territory.

He was figuring out how to point this out in his comeback to Kuina, when his moving gaze touched on two faces in the crowd. And then fixed there, immovably.

 

 

_Fuck -_

 

 

Zoro’s stomach pulled into a sudden hard knot. His eyes widened slightly and his heart began to thud hard behind his ribs.

The two faces were looking in his direction. Watching him, from across the other side of the square.

 

 

Kazuo. And Yoshiyuki Takenaka.

 

 

Zoro stared back at the two men, keeping his face immobile. Inwardly hoping they would receive the message he was sending them, loud and clear.

_You leave me the fuck alone, and I’ll pretend I never saw you._

 

 

He saw a slight smile come onto Takenaka’s face. He turned his head slightly: spoke a few words to Kazuo. The enforcer also smiled, grimly... Before looking directly at Zoro and making a summoning gesture, with a small jerk of his head.

_No fucking way._

Zoro started to turn away, preparatory to getting the hell out of there – but then thought better of it. If he didn’t go to Kazuo and Takenaka, maybe they would come to him. Which meant them getting near Kuina.

“Oi, are you spacing out or what?” Kuina nudged him. “I said, let’s go change our clothes and get some food. We’ll have to go babysit the stall pretty soon, least we can eat while we’re stuck there.”

Glancing at her, Zoro gave a short shake of his head. “You go ahead. I’ll catch you up.”

“You better not be thinking of slinking off and leaving me to do it my lonesome,” she grumbled. “Where you going, anyway?”

“Gotta find a restroom.” Zoro shrugged.

“Ugh, good luck. Those porta potties are _rank_.” She started to move away. “Meet you at the dojo stall. If you don’t show up soon, I will kick your ass.” She gave him a meaningful look, then slid away into the crowd.

 

 

Zoro watched her go, then let out a heavy breath. Before turning back to look where Kazuo and Takenaka had been.

They were no longer there. Zoro felt the knot in his guts loosen slightly, hoping that maybe his flatly unencouraging expression had warned the two men off.

Then the crowd in front of him shifted slightly and he saw Kazuo and Takenaka again. They had moved a little closer: standing now in a quiet corner where the backs of some stalls met in a dead-end. And they were still watching Zoro.

Kazuo was no longer smiling, his arms folded across his chest. He lifted one hand and made a short gesture, a summons to come over to them that it was clear he expected Zoro to comply with.

 

 

Zoro met the other man’s gaze, frowning... Then slowly walked through the crowded square to where the pair waited.

When he reached them, Zoro stopped. Looked steadily at Kazuo... Then switched his gaze to Takenaka. Saying nothing.

Kazuo took his cigarette out of his mouth with a grunt. “You took your fucking time walking your ass over here, Roronoa. That any way to act?”

“Didn’t see a whole lot worth walking over for,” Zoro retorted flatly.

 

 

Kazuo raised an eyebrow. “You think you’re somebody these days? Just ‘cos they let you get up there in a costume and swing a sword around?” He let out a dismissive laugh.

“You put on an impressive display.” Takenaka spoke quietly. He wore a small smile, but his eyes rested coolly on Zoro. “There’s no cause to be so unfriendly. All that’s happening is a little conversation. You’re too busy to talk?”

“As it happens, yeah.” Zoro hoped that this was all they were after.

“Because you got places to go, people to see?” Kazuo spoke mockingly, looking at the festival-goers wandering about the various stalls. “You planning on checking out the _kabuki_ later on?”

“What’s it to you?”

“ _Makeinu_... You were a lot more fun before you turned straight edge, Roronoa.” Kazuo blew out a dismissive stream of smoke. “All that hanging with the Seven Samurai must have chopped your balls off.” A sly smile crept over his face. “Or is it hanging with that redhead that did it? She looks real _hentai_... You getting some of that action?”

Zoro looked at him. “Why don’t you go find someone to annoy who gives a shit, _aho?_ There’s bound to be a bunch of _furyo shonen_ hanging round here somewhere who’d go for a round with you, if you think you can handle them.”

Kazuo tossed his cigarette onto the ground, before stepping toe to toe with Zoro. “I’d rather go for a round with you. You want to play, _kisama?”_

Zoro folded his arms slowly, his eyes holding the other man’s. “Any time.”

 

 

Takenaka raised one hand. “ _Yamero_. This is a respectable cultural gathering, lots of citizens. Also known as witnesses.” He fixed his gaze on Kazuo. “Don’t make me say this twice.”

After a second’s pause, Kazuo backed up a step. His eyes stayed locked with Zoro’s. Takenaka regarded his enforcer for a moment, then turned his gaze onto the younger man. “Not so reformed as you seem, _ne?_  Scratch the surface and the demon’s still in there.” He chuckled quietly.

Zoro looked at the club owner. “Why don’t you put your dog here on a leash and get out of my face.”

“Because I have an offer for you. It was unexpected seeing you here today, Roronoa; but it could work out well, for me and for you.”

“You’ve got nothing I want.”

“That so?” Takenaka raised his eyebrows slightly. “Ah, you mean now you’re clean and living the righteous life. Kudos: breaking that kind of habit is no easy task for the weak-willed.”

“Fuck you.” Zoro started to turn away.

“ _Nani teme?”_ Takenaka spoke quietly, but his words carried force. “Don’t turn your back on me. I’m still talking to you.”

 

 

Zoro swung around. Kept his arms by his sides because to do anything else would tip this situation into something potentially very bad, and Kazuo was almost twitching with evident desire to take this up a notch. “Then say what you’ve got to say.”

“All I’m doing is offering you work. For good money.”

“I don’t need to work for you any more.”

“Of course: because mopping locker room floors must be really bringing you the big rewards.” Takenaka saw the look on Zoro’s face and laughed again. “Word gets out, you know how it works. I hear how old acquaintances are doing. Holding down a job, swinging a shinai at the dojo... Nice little life you’re carving out for yourself. I suspect that work doesn’t pay so good, though.”

“I do okay.” Zoro said this through gritted teeth.

“Hah; that sounded convincing.” Takenaka raised an eyebrow. “That why you’re working two jobs and living in one room?” He smiled.

 

 

Zoro let out a breath. Feeling his fists clench until they ached. “I’m touched by your interest in my welfare. You want to spit out what it is you actually want from me, so I can tell you no once and for all?”

Takenaka looked across to the far end of the square. At the stage that was now hosting a Korean woman playing music on a haegum. “As I said... You put on an impressive display up there. You do that kind of thing often?”

“Now and then.” Zoro was pretty damn sure Takenaka wasn’t interested in following iaido.

“Very eye-catching. Pulled in the crowd, had them in the palm of your hand. People like to watch something dangerous.”

“It’s not dangerous if you do it right.”

Takenaka turned back to look at him again. “Not dangerous? But it’s sword fighting. That’s where iaido came from: killing your opponent with one stroke of your sword. In the old days.”

 

 

Zoro felt sick tension beginning to wind tighter in the pit of his stomach. “This conversation better not be going where I think it’s going.”

Takenaka raised his eyebrows. “Why so touchy?”

“I’m not getting involved in bullshit gang warfare, doing a fucking hit on some lowlife bastard for you. So you better not ask me to.”

Takenaka laughed. “ _Baka_... I don’t want you to kill someone, Roronoa. I don’t do things like that.”

_Yeah, right._

Zoro said nothing, holding the other man’s gaze. Takenaka gave a half-shake of his head. “No. I’m offering you a chance to make some money, _serious_   money, for a night’s work. Doing what you do so well: fighting.”

Zoro shook his head. “I’m not fighting for money any more.”

“Don’t be so hasty: think it over. You’ve done it before, where’s the harm?” A smile came onto Takenaka’s face. “When I saw you up there today, I thought: that Roronoa _Oni_ , he always put on a good show for the spectators. They got their money’s worth and went away happy. And those fights were pure poetry, the way you made sure your opponents weren’t getting up again any time soon. When you let the demon out to play, it was always worth watching.” Takenaka spoke in pleasant tones, but his eyes were fixed on the younger man. “So when I saw you were part of the show here, I thought I’d find you afterwards and see if you’d be interested in earning some good money. Especially now you have a whole new fighting skill. Which I think paying customers would put down top dollar to watch.”

 

 

Zoro shook his head, again. “No.”

“Like I said: think it over. I can already think of someone we could match you against. It could be arranged within a few weeks. You just show up, do what you did out there today. Only this time you’ll actually be facing off with someone else, instead of waving your katana at the air.”

“No weapons was always how it worked before. Rules changed?”

Takenaka smiled. “There are always exceptions to the rules. Sometimes we organise special nights, for select customers. With higher stakes. And higher pay. You’ll walk away afterwards with more money for a night’s work, than you’d make in a year of night shifts scrubbing toilets.”

“Forgetting the minor detail of me having to kill someone before I can walk away with my winnings.”

“Kill someone? Don’t be stupid, Roronoa. I don’t want fighters killing each other. Much harder to clean up that kind of mess. All you’ve got to do is the usual: beat the other man so that he stays down. I’m pretty sure you can manage that, after seeing you in action up on that stage.”

“I think he’s worried he’s gonna be the one who gets beat down.” Kazuo spoke up in a mocking drawl from the sidelines. “Spent too long play-fighting in a dojo, he’s gone soft. He knows if he goes up against a real fighter, he’ll get his balls handed to him.”

“That how it is, Roronoa?” Takenaka sounded amused. “You lost your edge? Too bad.” He turned to Kazuo. “Maybe that little redhead _has_   got him on a leash. She looked pretty fierce up there too, come to think of it. Maybe we’ll ask her if she’d be interested in putting on a show instead of Roronoa. That would really bring the money in.”

 

 

Zoro took a single swift step forward – and Kazuo was between him and Takenaka, right in his face. “Oi, _kusottare:_  back off.”

Zoro met Kazuo’s hard gaze for a long moment, before looking past him to where Takenaka stood, still wearing a pleasantly amused smile on his face. “You stay away from her.”

“What’s the problem?” Takenaka kept on smiling. “She’s a fighter too. Maybe she’d be interested in hearing about how you used to win fights before you got respectable.” Takenaka turned to Kazuo. “Remember that time Roronoa broke Sakurai’s nose all over his face? That was a fight worth seeing. I bet his girlfriend would really like it if you told her that story - ”

“I mean it. Stay the fuck away from her.” Zoro was clenching his fists so hard now, his nails were digging into his palms.

 

 

Takenaka’s eyes fixed on his. “No problem. Think over what I said. If we hear from you by the end of next week, your little kendo friend doesn’t hear from Kazuo. Or your sensei. Or your boss at work.”

There was a beat of silence between the three of them. Kazuo lifted his cigarette to his mouth and took a pull on it, narrowed eyes watching Zoro. Next to him, his boss nodded.

“One night’s work, Roronoa: that’s all I’m asking. I’m doing you a favour. And because I’m a reasonable man, I’ll pay you just to fight. Put on a good show with that katana and even if you lose, you’ll walk away with more money than you earn mopping floors. Or win, and you don’t have to work for a year.” He smiled, and tapped a finger to the side of his head. “ _Kangaete mite._ Use that brain of yours for once.” He let his words stand for a moment; then gave Zoro a small nod. “Do the smart thing.” Giving the younger man a final cool smile, he turned and walked away into the crowd.

Kazuo remained there, holding Zoro’s gaze for few seconds. Before stating, “You decide you’ve got the balls to fight, leave word at the Big Fish Bar. By the end of next week, like he said.” He gave Zoro a mocking grin. “Later, _gaki_.” Then turned away too and followed after his boss.

 

 

The sounds of the community festival swirled around Zoro. Families walking past; children shouting or crying or demanding treats; the plaintive notes of the haegum’s music threading its way through from the stage.

It felt as though something had fallen between him and the world around him. As if some door had just been closed, leaving him on the wrong side.

Zoro found his hand had closed tight around the hilt of his katana, clenching on it until his fingers ached.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

The following week passed in a grey blur. Zoro worked, and went to kendo class, and then the weekend arrived and he ran out of time to find any kind of answer to the choice he had to make. Except the obvious one.

When he went into the Big Fish Bar Kazuo seemed unsurprised by the youth turning up: unsurprised too by what Zoro had to say. “Just couldn’t stay away, hah?” He lit a cigarette and drew in smoke, studying the youth through narrowed eyes. “So: you’re going to fight?”

“Wouldn’t be here else.”

Kazuo gave a slight smile at this. “Sure you’re ready to play for real, _gaki?”_

Zoro returned the dark level gaze. “When, and where at?”

 Letting out a smoky exhalation, the enforcer flicked ash away. “Two weeks from Saturday. 2923 Earl Street, warehouse off Essex. Seven o’clock. Go round back, there’ll be someone on the door. Just tell them your name.”

“Right.” Zoro frowned slightly. Feeling the weight of things happening, inexorably. “Who’s the guy I’m up against?”

Kazuo raised an eyebrow, briefly. “Introductions on the night. Don’t forget to polish your sword.” And the enforcer gave him another mocking smile.

 

 

Zoro let out a slow breath, before turning away and starting to leave. But Kazuo’s voice followed him. “Oi, Roronoa.”

Stopping, Zoro swung back to face the other man. “What?”

“Different kind of fight.” Kazuo looked at him, steadily. “Shit like this, you could get fucked up for real.” He gave the youth a short nod. “Maybe you’ll want something to give you a lift, after. I can let you have a g now: you can pay me from your winnings.” His smile widened a little. “Or from your loser’s fee.”

The room suddenly felt like it was running out of air. Zoro stared into the enforcer’s eyes. “I told you. I fucking quit that shit.”

“Yeah?” Kazuo raised an eyebrow, taking another pull on his cigarette. “You told me you quit fighting, too. Yet here you are.”

 

 

There was nothing to say. So Zoro held the other man’s gaze for a few seconds longer... Before turning away and heading out of the bar, onto the street. And kept walking.

He wasn’t going any place: just needing to keep moving. That old feeling welling up, of wanting to somehow outdistance something. Pretty soon he was lost and didn’t give a fuck, because that was how his whole life seemed destined to go.

Nowhere.

When evening came on Zoro found himself sitting on the back of a bench in a park, feet propped on the seat, gazing out at the scrubby trees and threadbare grass. It could have been the same park he’d sat in, that night two years ago. The first time he’d won a fight at Takenaka’s club: got hooked up by Kazuo at the party afterwards and run through the night streets on a high, feeling like his life was finally opening up and feeling good.

 

 

_Dumb as fuck._

It had all been a trick of his easily-fooled brain. A meth-fuelled illusion that he could do something. That he was more than just a shit-out-of-luck idiot, ready to take the first chance he got at fucking up his life even more than it already was.

Maybe he and his uncle had something in common. Maybe screwing up your life ran in the family.

Maybe his _oji_ had figured out that Zoro wasn’t going to amount to much. So he’d walked away without a backwards glance.

 

 

An evening breeze moved against Zoro’s skin, carrying with it the smell of city summer. Dry grass and traffic fumes, dog shit and warm tarmac. He kept gazing ahead, out over the park. Watching a couple of kids run in hot pursuit of one another, while further away a woman called them to return, ignored and getting shriller each time.

_What if._

Zoro never let himself go there. What if his uncle hadn’t left. What if that guy in the bus station restroom had done what he’d tried to. What if Zoro had never started fighting at Takenaka’s club. What if he hadn’t gone to the party at Shibata’s afterwards, had that first hit of meth.

What if he’d never started doing kendo. Never met Koshiro, or Kuina.

 

 

His stomach was a tight, clenched knot. He watched the kids running away from their mother, laughing, not knowing or caring about the consequences. Thinking that whatever they did, they would be okay.

_You made a choice. So deal._

Two weeks from Saturday, he’d be fighting again. Up against someone unknown as yet. With his katana.

Takenaka’s words replayed through his brain.

_\- I don’t want fighters killing each other. Much harder to clean up that kind of mess. All you’ve got to do is the usual: beat the other man so that he stays down._

 

 

They held zero reassurance. Zoro might be a fuck-up, but he wasn’t a total moron. It didn’t take genius to know that when two guys holding swords went up against each other, damage of the major sort was inevitable. Maybe even for the one who walked away the winner.

_So why the fuck are you doing this?_

That old voice, small and nagging. As ineffective a call to reason as it had ever been. And he had answers ready for it.

_Because if I don’t, Takenaka will fuck my life over anyway. Because Kazuo would come after Kuina. Because Koshiro would find out what I used to do._

_Because when bastards like Takenaka want something to happen, they make it happen. And I was a total dumbass, for thinking I could ever leave all this shit behind._

He shut his eyes.

_Fuck it._

The decision was made. He was going to fight. No point thinking about it. Just decide, here and now, the only thing that made sense any more. That he was going to win.

_Roronoa Oni. That what you want, Takenaka? Then that’s what you’re gonna fucking get._

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

The room was quiet: only the sound of their breathing as they moved, and the scuff of their footsteps on the floor. A silver flicker, as their blades moved back: then the short hard _shush_ of air cleaved apart, as each sword fell.

Zoro held still for a moment, katana still extended in both hands; then pivoted on the balls of his feet and brought the blade down again in a swift arc. Turned back the way he’d been facing and sliced his sword downwards for a third time. Aware of Kuina beside him, moving in a mirror-image of his own actions. The two of them almost in synch: focused on executing each part of the kata perfectly.

He reversed the katana, placing the tip in its sheath on his left hip; sliding the blade smoothly home between finger and thumb. Before coming to stillness, eyes gazing steadily ahead.

 

 

There was a beat of silence. Then Kuina released a breath. And when he turned his head, she was smiling. “Didn’t suck.”

Zoro gave a nod, answering with a brief half-smile of his own. Before turning away too. Walking to the edge of the warehouse space where they practiced, to pick up his water bottle and tip his head back, gulping a cool mouthful.

“Oi.” Kuina’s voice followed him, slightly peeved. “You quitting? It’s still early.”

Zoro looked back at her. “We did all the kata.”

“Yeah... But we’ve still got time for some sparring.” She shrugged.

 

 

Zoro didn’t answer for a moment. Kuina saw his lack of response as an opening: bestowed a provocative grin on him. “Unless your fragile male ego is feeling vulnerable.”

Setting down his water bottle, Zoro felt his eyes narrow. “What made you think that?”

Kuina shrugged. “You seem like your mind’s kinda elsewhere tonight.”

For an answer, Zoro walked back into the centre of the space, to stand opposite her. “You want to spar, let’s spar.” He let his hand rest on the hilt of his katana. Feeling the flat grey feeling that had overcast him for the last couple of weeks subtly alter; hardening into something darker.

 

 

Kuina’s grin took on a dangerous glint. Then she too stepped in, her own hand slipping onto Wado’s hilt. “Okay then.”

They were still, gazes held. Bowed, eyes still meeting. Then straightened up and drew their katana, both going into stance.

Zoro felt the weight of the sword in his hand. The cool press of the floor under his bare feet. The steady dark gaze of Kuina’s eyes holding his.

 

 

She moved first, delivering a low attack that he blocked, then followed through with his own strike. Their katana rang together, bright edges catching the overhead fluorescents with a cold flicker.

Another exchange of moves, blade meeting blade again. Zoro tried to push Kuina back and she twisted away, spinning on her heel and coming back at him with a lightning quick sweep of Wado that had him parrying hard. He saw her quick fierce smile of satisfaction, and then she was setting up her next attack, not giving him time to take the offensive.

Something within Zoro shifted. Something that rose up out of the dark place and took control, so that where he was and what he was doing fell away. Leaving only clarity and a single irrefutable need.

_Beat her._

 

 

When Kuina’s katana came he met it: turned it aside with his own. Stepped in and levelled his own attack at her, so swiftly he saw her eyes widen. She blocked his blade; then had to block again as he followed through with another attack, pushing her backwards.

The shock of their katana meeting shattered the air. Zoro moved forwards, slashing a blow towards Kuina’s side; blocked but coming at her again, the graceful lines of the kata warping into something else. Intent to win.

A breath escaped from Kuina as she parried another one of his attacks. Her eyes had narrowed, her teeth clenched as she brought Wado up to meet Zoro’s katana. And yet she was still holding him back. Still refusing to lose.

 

 

The clarity that was powering Zoro shifted his focus away from Kuina’s face. To the blade she wielded. So that he only saw the katana. Kuina greying out to become an opponent, someone to beat, a shadow on the edge of his vision.

Nothing mattered except winning this.

 

 

And with that thought Zoro let himself go. Bringing his katana through the air, feeling the jolt of its impact against the other steel blade. Turning and sweeping it sideways, abandoning the careful discipline of kenjutsu for the simple need to find a way in through Kuina’s defence. Coming up against her parry again, and using the anger that came to push harder.

Their katana slammed into each other; and Zoro swept both their blades down and flicked hers sideways, before bringing his sword back across hard, aiming for Kuina’s neck.

 

 

“ _Yame!”_

 

Her shout cut through the air, louder than the clash of their blades that had preceded it. And then they were standing face to face, Kuina holding his katana off with her own, her arms braced. Her eyes shocked and furious.

Zoro felt his own arms drop. The response to the sound of that command word ingrained into him from hours of kendo training. He pulled a single breath in. And the world came back. His friend staring at him, her face white, brows drawn down into angry lines.

 

 

They stepped back from each other, lowering their katana. Each sliding their blade back into its sheath. Before Kuina said, slowly and in an unsteady voice, “What the actual _fuck_.”

Zoro took another breath in. Feeling the sweat coming onto his skin. Feeling himself coming all the way back.

Kuina still stared at him. “Are you totally crazy?” Her voice was thin with rage. “Do you know what sparring means, _aho?”_

 

 

Taking a step back from her, Zoro shook his head. “I’m sorry - ”

“Were you trying to take my damn head off?” Kuina exclaimed. “You asshole!”

Zoro shook his head again. Trying to ground himself, to hold onto the reality of things around him. The high-ceilinged echoing space of the warehouse, with its familiar smell of dust and packaging. His friend facing him, her face still pale with shock. The knowledge of what he’d just done.

That anchored him at last. Sick realisation slamming into his gut, so that he had to turn and walk away to where he’d left his water bottle: pick it up and gulp down a mouthful, fighting it past the nausea rising inside him.

“Don’t you _dare_ walk off from me!” Kuina’s footsteps followed him, then her hand grabbed his arm and yanked him round back to face her. “What the hell happened just then?”

 

 

Zoro had no answer he could give her that would mean anything. “...I got caught up in it.”

Kuina’s face fell into angry disbelief. “Are you kidding me? You go postal on my ass, and that’s all you’ve got to say? That you were lost in the moment?”

“I said I was sorry.”

“ _Masaka_... _You’re_ sorry?” Kuina exhaled sharply. “You can forget about us ever doing that again. You total psycho.” She abruptly let go of his arm, and stomped away to her own pile of kit. Slid her katana in its saya free, before hauling on her hoodie and sitting down on the floor to pull on her trainers.

Zoro watched her. Aware of things shutting down within himself, doors closing. “Shit \-  I didn’t mean to - ”

 

 

“Felt like you meant it.” Kuina got to her feet, and began gathering up her stuff. “I didn’t think you bought into that macho bullshit. Looks like I was wrong. Well, you want to have a pissing contest, go find someone else to mess with.”

“I mean it. I screwed up. I’m really fucking sorry. Don’t - ” Zoro cut himself off. Took a deep breath. “Look. Practicing here, with you. It means a fuck of a lot to me. I don’t want to blow that because I did something stupid.”

Kuina looked at him, from under lowered brows. “Have you any idea how dangerous what you just did was?”

“Yeah.” The sickness that still squatted in Zoro’s stomach tried to rise again, and he swallowed it down. “I do.”

 

 

His friend studied him for a few seconds. Then she let out a heavy sigh. Before slowly crossing the room and standing in front of him, arms folded across her chest. Holding his gaze with hers until Zoro eventually had to look away.

“You are a total asshole.” Kuina’s voice was still angry, but the deadly coldness was no longer there. When Zoro met her gaze again, her frown met him. “If you ever pull anything like that on me again, I will slice your balls off.”

Despite her threat, Zoro felt the danger between them lift slightly. “Fair enough.”

They regarded each other silently for a few seconds longer... Then the corner of Kuina’s mouth hiked up, just a little. “You planning on fighting like that in a couple of weeks’ time?”

 

 

An unpleasant shock ran through Zoro: before he realised that she wasn’t talking about his planned fight for Takenaka. She meant the local kendo tournament that they would both be competing in, along with others from their dojo. He managed a crooked smile. “You saying I ought to tone it down a little?”

“Hell no.” Kuina snorted. “Fight like that and you might stand half a chance of winning your shiai.”

 

 

They both relaxed a little then. After a few moments of silence, Kuina spoke again. “Seriously though... You try anything like that at the tournament, the shinpan will nail your ass to the floor. And so will _chichi,_ afterwards.”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry.”

She regarded him. “You can win without that. You’re good enough.”

Zoro felt just a slight lifting of the heaviness that sat in the centre of his chest. “Uh huh.”

Kuina made a wry face. “Wow, don’t overdo the enthusiasm. What’s up with you? You’ve been in a weird mood all evening.”

Zoro shrugged. “Nothing. Just tired, I guess.”

“You’ve haven’t exactly been a bundle of fun, lately. Wouldn’t hurt to lighten up. Y’know, get a social life before you forget how to have one.”

 

 

Zoro bent down and picked up his own hoodie: pulled it on over his head. “Had stuff to do.”

“Working?”

“Yeah.”

“Weekends as well? Every time I asked you recently to come out, you’re always busy.”

“The guy I do labouring work for picked up a big landscaping job, needs us six days a week. Sundays I just want to sack out.” It wasn’t a complicated lie, but that didn’t make it easier to say to her. Zoro sat on the floor to pull on his trainers, then stood up again. “It won’t last for long, but I need the money while it’s there.”

“Okay. Whatever.” Kuina ran her hand through her hair. “Then let me know when it’s less crazed. We ought to go celebrate after winning at the tournament.”

“Yeah, sure.” For Zoro, the kendo tournament seemed a distant future possibility. Coming as it did a week after the fight he’d agreed to do for Takenaka.

Kuina eyed him. “Hm.” Then she nodded towards her bag. “C’mon. Let’s call it a night.”

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

It was a warm Saturday evening, the night of the fight. Traffic sounds and voices coming up from the street, through the window Zoro had left propped open.

His sword bag lay diagonally across the table. He’d taken the Iwa Shobu out of its sheath earlier that day and spent a careful hour working on the katana: sharpening it with a whetstone, then polishing the blade with stone powder. Wiping and oiling the bright metal until it shone.

Carrying a katana through the streets might not be a smart idea, but the black sword bag didn’t make its contents obvious. Hanging on Zoro’s back it shouldn’t call too much attention.

He was dressed similarly unremarkably. Black cargo pants and a white t-shirt, with a dark grey hoodie over the top. His hair mostly obscured by a bandana tied over the top, black covering the green. Tonight he didn’t want to be memorable, to passers-by or anyone.

Tying on the bandana, Zoro had felt for a moment as if he was preparing for a kendo session. Like wrapping the soft folds of his tenugui around his head, before he slid on his men. The slight tug of tightness across his forehead, as he knotted the bandana at the back of his neck.

 

 

Zoro checked the clock on his phone. Time to go.

 

 

Although it was quite a distance across town, he walked the whole way. Needing to be in the warm summer evening air for as long as possible; to feel it against his skin. The world around him alive and distant. Like watching a story that was happening to someone else.

The warehouse on Earl Street was a squat flat-roofed building, one of several on a run-down industrial estate. Blank-silvered windows looked out onto a parking lot that was shared with neighbouring buildings, with cars and pick-ups scattered across the space.

Zoro walked straight round the back: a scuffed metal door at the top of a short ramp greeted him. He stopped in front of the door; lifted one fist and knocked on it twice.

 

 

The door opened, revealing a wide-shouldered Japanese guy Zoro didn’t recognise. The man studied him.

“I’m Zoro Roronoa.” Standing there with his fists in his hoodie pockets; feeling the weight of his katana between his shoulder blades.

The man gave a short nod, then stepped to one side, pushing the door wider. “Go straight through.”

 

 

 _Straight through_ meant walking along a blank passage to a door at the far end flanked by a second guy, which opened into the main warehouse space beyond. High-ceilinged and lit by fluorescents; a background tang of paint and thinners, a smooth cement floor speckled in places with random colours. A large rolling shutter door, that took up most of one wall. Racks of tools along the sides. An auto body shop, or something like it.

Over the smell of paint an overlay of cigarette smoke, alcohol. People milling together, clustered round a work bench evidently doing duty as a temporary bar: bottles of spirits and cans of beer being plied. Another knot of people waiting at a nearby table, where Zoro saw Shibata sitting, accepting thick rolls of banknotes, issuing slips of paper in return. Taking bets.

 

 

A familiar low rough voice sounded just behind him. “Looking different to when I last saw you. Turning _chinpira?”_

Zoro turned around. Met Kazuo’s dark-eyed mocking smile. “Assumed there wasn’t a dress code.”

Kazuo nodded. “Not like coming to play in your dojo, _gaki_. Here it’s for real.” He jerked his head slightly to one side, indicating a square space in the centre of the room which had been marked off with a double perimeter of tape on the floor. “Think you can put on a good show for the paying customers?”

“Watch me.”

 

 

Kazuo hitched up an eyebrow. “Know what I think?”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“I think you’re gonna get gutted. That; or shit your load in the first five minutes.” The enforcer gave him a mocking smile. “Either way, I’m gonna enjoy watching.”

“Yeah? I don’t see you ready to get up there, _yowamushi_.”

“I’m smarter than that.” Kazuo flicked ash off his cigarette dismissively. “Besides: there’ll always be plenty of dumb fucks like you lining up to do it. Because you need the money, and you’ve got nothing else going for you. Right, _gaki?”_

Zoro kept his face still. “You gonna point me in the direction of the guy I’m fighting, or you want to talk shit all night?”

Kazuo let out a short grunt of laughter. “He’s over there. The one with the space around him where no-one’s walking.”

 

 

The enforcer’s description hadn’t been inaccurate. Without doing anything except sitting at one side of the warehouse space, the dark-haired man had somehow defined a no-trespass zone. He sat with loosely folded arms, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, watching the room dispassionately. Eyes that flicked up and turned their amber gaze on Zoro when he stopped a couple of paces in front of him.

“I’m Zoro Roronoa.”

The pale eyes assessed him. “Mihawk.”

“We’re fighting tonight.”

The corner of Mihawk’s mouth lifted slightly, under his narrow moustache. “So it would seem.”

 

 

Zoro regarded his opponent levelly. Taking in the man’s groomed appearance: the thin line of beard defining the sharp angles of his jaw. A dark red shirt, open just enough to show a scrolling of tattoo work on his upper chest. A crucifix inked tribal-style, blackwork sharp against pale skin. “You fight for Takenaka before?”

Those weirdly pale gold eyes held on him. “Fight _for_ him? I think not.” That slight smile, again. “That why you’re here?”

There was something about how the other fighter spoke that lit a flame of anger in Zoro’s stomach. “I’m here to kick your ass. And get paid.”

“That so.” The provoking smile grew a little. “Predictable. But unimaginative.”

 

 

Zoro found his gaze shifting, because to look any longer on that mocking smile was making his fists itch. And saw just behind Mihawk, leaning against the wall, the fighter’s weapon. A white hilt and bronze crosspiece above a broad black scabbard: a sword whose slightly curved length hit almost four feet.

_Fuck._

His eyes returned to the other man. Who had been watching him, and now spoke again. “You fight with a katana, I’m told.”

“Yeah.” Zoro still had his sword bag slung on his shoulder. Slowly he unshipped it: unfastened the top, and slid the Iwa Shobu in its black lacquered saya out of the bag. Holding it loosely in his left hand, so the other man could see it.

Mihawk gave a single nod. “I use a kriegsmesser. A replica of a fifteenth century design.”

Zoro looked at the long sword again. “Swinging that kind of weight must slow you down.”

The pale eyes sharpened on him. “A prediction you’ll be able to test very shortly.”

 

 

Footsteps close by them made both look round. Takenaka had walked from out of the crowd in the room, shadowed by Kazuo. His expensively-tailored dark suit made him look like a successful executive, strangely out of place amongst the throng. “Ah... The combatants are making each other’s acquaintance?”

Mihawk looked at the club owner from under level brows. “Exchanging civilities.”

“Indeed.” Takenaka regarded the older fighter consideringly. “Not becoming too friendly, I hope. This audience hasn’t come to see a polite demonstration of swordsmanship. Worthy though that would be.”

“We’ll endeavour to give your customers the spectacle they deserve,” Mihawk responded, his tones as neutral as the Japanese man’s.

Takenaka gave a small smile. Before switching his gaze to Zoro. “And how about you, Roronoa? Ready to draw your katana for real?”

Zoro had a sudden blinding wish that it was Takenaka he was facing in the upcoming fight. The desire making his voice rough and cold when he answered. “Looking forward to it.”

Takenaka just smiled again. “Fortuitous for you that our paths crossed again a few weeks ago, _ne?”_ He gave both fighters a steady look, before walking away with Kazuo in tow.

 

 

Watching the club owner go, Zoro became aware of Mihawk scrutinising him. When his gaze met the other man’s, Mihawk spoke. “When you dislike a man like him... Better to not let it show.”

“Thanks for the lesson in etiquette.” Zoro was past caring what impression he made. “That how you got this gig? By kissing Takenaka’s ass?”

One of Mihawk’s dark eyebrows lifted slightly. “Nothing so picturesque. When an opportunity to fight arises, I take advantage of it.”

“You make a habit of this?” Zoro was piqued, in spite of himself. “How’s that work? You stick an ad in _Swordfighters Weekly?”_  he added sardonically.

“Something like that.” Mihawk seemed unmoved.

“Guess the money’s good enough to make it worth your while.”

“The money’s an incidental benefit. I fight for other reasons.”

“Yeah?” Zoro gave him an ironic look. “Unresolved issues?”

The amber eyes with their black centres rested steadily on his own. “I find it’s a reliable antidote to boredom.”

 

 

Zoro wanted to write this guy off as an arrogant fucking asshole. Which he clearly was: but that didn’t take away from a more significant fact. That Mihawk had clearly done this before. More than once, by the sound of it.

He slung his katana back over his shoulder, in its sword bag. “I’ll try to make it interesting for you.”

Mihawk simply nodded. “I hope so.”

Not bothering to make another response, Zoro turned away, intent on finding somewhere else to wait out the intervening time before the fight began. Beginning to understand why Mihawk was sitting alone.

 

 

 

 

 

Less than an hour elapsed, when Shibata materialised where Zoro sat in a corner morosely regarding the crowd. “Oi. We start in five minutes. Get ready.”

Zoro stripped off his hoodie, dumping it carelessly on the back of the chair he’d been sitting on. Flexed and rolled his shoulders a few times: hooked one arm around the other and stretched. Reached over to each side, feeling the tension singing through his chest. Bounced a couple of times on his feet, and shook out his hands.

_Game on._

He slid his katana out of the sheath, laying the lacquered saya aside. Flexed his fingers lightly on the hilt. Then let out a long slow breath.

_Okay. Let’s fucking do this._

 

 

Shibata was already winding up the crowd, standing in the room’s centre and announcing the fight in his usual laconic style. Which Zoro didn’t bother listening to.

He walked through the crowd, who parted to let him through with some murmuring and staring. Their building excitement palpable.

_Looking forward to seeing some blood._

Zoro remembered getting that extra hundred, the time he bloodied his fight opponent up so badly.

_No bonuses this time._

If he won, he’d walk away with ten thousand bucks.

If he lost, he’d get a couple of grand. Though maybe if he lost, he wouldn’t be walking away.

 

 

Across the square territory of the ring space in the centre of the room Mihawk stood, holding his outsize sword. Unsheathed it looked even more intimidating: nearly four feet of dark steel, the blade slightly curved and wider towards its end.

Shibata looked at Mihawk. “Ready?”

The other fighter simply nodded, his face impassive.

Switching his gaze to Zoro, Shibata made the same inquiry. “Ready?”

Zoro also gave a single nod. Looking past the bulky man, to meet Mihawk’s gaze.

 

 

Raising his voice, Shibata held up one hand. “The fight continues until one man goes down and stays down. Or is too injured to fight on.” His hand dropped.

Instantly Mihawk began to move, stepping slowly to one side. Light on his feet, despite the size of the sword he carried. Zoro mirrored him, circling too in the ring, watching the other man’s posture; the shift of his weight from foot to foot.

The onlookers had mostly hushed. Zoro felt his hand tighten on the hilt of his katana.

_Okay, shithead. Let’s see what you can do._

He moved suddenly, slicing out an attack that he levelled at the other man’s unprotected side. Mihawk brought up his own sword in a swift flicker of silver light and their blades rang together, before the other fighter countered with an attack of his own. Zoro turned the strike aside with another ringing clash, shifting to keep Mihawk in front of him.

_Fuck, he’s fast -_

 

 

The other man moved as if hardly feeling the heft of the long sword he used. He swept it around in a two-handed grip, powering his attack home: blocking the downward blow Zoro felt it slam a shockwave into his shoulders. Had to shift his balance, not backing up, using his katana to shove the other man’s sword aside with a grunt of effort.

Instantly Mihawk came on the offensive again, wheeling round with another sweep of his blade. Their swords hit together for a fourth time and clashed apart, both fighters separating too and falling back.

 

 

The action had aroused the onlookers, who began calling out, urging each fighter on. The noise began to grow as Zoro and Mihawk circled each other again.

“Not bad. For a beginner.” Mihawk spoke just loudly enough to be heard by the younger swordsman. Zoro made no reply, concentrating on the other man’s movements. On the deliberate footwork. The flex of the fingers on the long sword’s hilt.

He took the lead again, launching a challenge that Mihawk parried; but Zoro followed through, pushing harder, determined to make the other man give ground.

Blade hitting hard against blade, turning and stepping in. And then it came, sweeping over him.

Fading the shouting crowd to background. Bringing sharp focus onto just the two of them; the feel of the katana hilt hard in Zoro’s hands, kicking under the impact as their swords met. Bright glints of light washing off moving steel. The feel of the floor under his feet and air pulling into his lungs as he kept moving, kept circling. Kept his eyes on the other man’s face, his eyes, his hands.

 

 

More than a year since Zoro had last fought for real. But it came back when he needed it to. Like he’d never stopped.

_Roronoa Oni._

Bright and hard and rising high, he was here for the wrong reasons but it still felt good. To take every broken-edged thing within and turn it outwards. To hold nothing back. Not with fists this time, but clean-edged metal. Holding his katana with no kata to follow: circling an opponent in a shiai with points to be scored on flesh, unarguable.

 

 

Something like elation rose and burned everything else away. And Zoro was still feeling it when Mihawk’s sword flickered under his upraised left arm and the tip jabbed into the soft tissue of his chest, slicing almost down to the bone of his ribs.

The watching crowd let out a communal _Uhhh_  of what sounded like appreciation, at this sign that they were going to get their money’s worth.

Zoro fell back, feeling just a sharp point of heat at first; then the following keener sting that signalled damage had been done. His hand lifted to his chest automatically, finding a rent a couple of inches long in his t-shirt: fingers touching a place that stung and ached and left his fingertips bloody when he lifted them away.

_Shit -_

 

 

Lifting his gaze from his fingers back to his opponent, Zoro found his other hand clenching on the hilt of his katana.

Mihawk’s gaze met his, those pale gold eyes steady. Like an animal watching wounded prey. “Commendable energy.” He spoke in the same coolly mocking tone he’d used before.

Zoro found his teeth clenching together. “You can save the fucking editorial.”

“Thought you might benefit from some constructive criticism.”

 

 

_I’m going to take you down, you arrogant fuck._

Getting cut hurt enough to motivate Zoro to make sure he didn’t let Mihawk breach his guard again. He stepped sideways, holding his katana with both hands, watching the older swordsman. Trying to analyse his strategy, spot the flaws in his technique.

The long kriegsmesser sword had to be considerably heavier than a katana, which in theory ought to mean that Mihawk would mostly be attacking with two-handed sweeping blows. But in practice the older swordsman seemed capable of switching grips and tactics with fluid ease, parrying Zoro’s katana and launching his own strikes with incredible swiftness.

They were covering a lot of ground within the ring, circling, stepping in and falling back; always keeping moving. Watching for a gap, a tell in the other’s stance, a failure to cover a vulnerability.

 

 

Zoro launched a fast strike towards Mihawk’s left arm, which the other man parried so hard that sparks flew off the meeting blades. Zoro tried to bring his katana back round for a follow-through but the older swordsman was already there, catching his move before he’d finished it and ramming the kriegsmesser forward with a heave that caught Zoro wrongfooted and shoved him off balance. He lurched a couple of steps sideways, turning wildly as he did so, suddenly aware of his exposed back. Spinning round and catching in a harsh breath, katana coming up: expecting the other man’s sword to be driving at him.

Instead Mihawk stood a couple of paces away, watching him calmly. His arm extended down; sword held unthreateningly with its tip pointing floorwards. As if he was waiting for Zoro to recover.

 

 

Disbelief flooded through Zoro. And then got washed away in a second flood, of anger.

He released a single hard breath. Feeling the sweat stinging his eyes. While opposite him, Mihawk looked as though he was taking this all in stride. Like this was some game, which he was finding somewhat entertaining.

_\- I find it’s a reliable antidote to boredom._

 

 

Mouth tightening, Zoro made up his mind he was going to finish this. Now.

 

 

He advanced on the other man, locking gazes for an instant. Before feinting a move to the right – then swiftly changing attack, bringing his katana around in a sweeping strike that he put all his force behind, determined to cut under Mihawk’s guard. And for just an instant, he thought he’d done it.

And then the older swordsman was moving inhumanly fast, somehow managing not only to evade Zoro’s attack but meet it with an answering one. So that their swords met with the combined force of two fighters pushing home.

 

 

This time there was more than just sparks. Zoro felt the brittle shock of steel shattering under stress, with an impact that jarred the bones in his wrist. And as he turned, wheeling round to face Mihawk again, he heard the clatter of metal fragments hitting the concrete floor.

Suddenly he was wielding a strange lightness; his gaze dragged downwards. Where he saw nothing left in his hands but the hilt of his sword, bearing a scant six inches of blade ending in a ragged broken-off shard. The bastard had cleaved through his katana. Sheared off the steel as if it had been as fragile as glass.

 

 

_Fuck._

 

 

Zoro regarded the useless hilt. Then raised his gaze to where Mihawk stood, a few feet in front of him. The other swordsman had lowered his own sword slightly: his eyes also found Zoro’s maimed katana. A slight smile lifted the corners of those thin lips. “You seem to be at a disadvantage.”

Zoro lowered the broken blade, then met the other man’s gaze. “Yeah.” The cut on his side was beginning to hurt more. He could feel his t-shirt sticking to his ribs, wet warmth blotting into the cloth. And he could hear too, the expectant buzz of the onlookers around them. Beginning to get an inkling that the night’s entertainment might be coming to an end.

Mihawk let his sword arm relax slightly: a gesture of magnanimity to a loser. “Not a bad fight. For your first time.” His eyes glanced to the watching crowd, then back to Zoro. “At least you’ve earned your money.”

The breath stopped in Zoro’s throat. Choked off by more rising anger, as his own words replayed in his brain.

_\- I’m here to kick your ass. And get paid._

 

 

The watching crowd was starting to get a little rowdy now, disgruntled at the break in the action. The light of the fluorescents suddenly felt harsh; the air Zoro breathed in smelled of sweat and cigarette smoke and expectation. And somewhere in the onlookers, Takenaka must be watching the performance. Watching them dance as he pulled their strings. And Zoro being his puppet, yet again.

The rush that had always come from fighting, that had taken Zoro to another place, had utterly dissolved. Instead there was just this: bright fluorescent light and clamouring onlookers in the high-ceilinged industrial space. The feeling of failing again to be anything other than a loser. And a sickness growing in the pit of Zoro’s stomach, because he had walked back into this and it was like he’d never left.

 

 

_Fuck this shit._

 

 

Zoro directed a single glowering look towards the crowd heckling from the edges... Then turned to face Mihawk. Stepped in towards the other man.

The other swordsman looked at him coolly. “I believe we’re about done.” His hands tightened slightly round the hilt of his sword. “Unless you plan on turning this into a fistfight.”

Zoro smiled grimly. Then slowly spread his arms, opening them up and out to either side at shoulder height. Not thinking about what he was doing: just doing it. “Then finish this, motherfucker. If you’ve got the balls.” He let his smile widen. “Bring it.”

 

 

Mihawk’s eyes narrowed. Then an answering smile came onto his own face. “As you say.” And his hands gripped his sword’s hilt, lifting it up and back.

Zoro knew that somewhere in the suddenly hushed and waiting crowd, Takenaka was watching this. His showcase night: with Zoro not just losing, but offering himself up to his opponent’s sword. Basically, throwing the fight.

_All bets are off, motherfuckers._

 

Mihawk’s sword began its sweep down. Zoro felt his hands clench into fists: kept his arms spread wide, waiting. Staring straight ahead, at the other man’s face. Catching only the briefest flicker of light reflected off the blade. Before hot lightning bit in near his shoulder and slashed down across his chest and stomach.

 

 

It was so quick he didn’t have time to really feel it, at first. He found himself falling back a couple of unsteady steps, the breath leaving him raggedly as if he’d been punched. He managed to come to a standstill; his arms falling slowly, fists uncurling. And in front of him Mihawk stepping back, his golden-eyed gaze resting on him.

Then pain ripped across Zoro’s chest in a white-hot line. He heard the choked sound of himself, catching a single breath in. Then his legs went from under him as if someone had kicked him from behind: and he went down onto his knees, hard onto the floor.

_Fuck_

 

 

Fire and ice. A sensation like cold mist filling his head, and the front of his t-shirt clinging to his skin, growing heavy-wet. A buzz of sound, of raised voices somewhere. Gravity suddenly shifting so that he had to put one arm out and brace his hand on the floor. Gazing down at the scuffed grey cement, blinking. Fat drops of bright red landing there, overlapping and spreading, as he watched.

“ _Kuso_... Get him up - ” A grip fastening round his arms, on his shoulders. Hauling him back up to his feet and the line of fire across his chest seemed to rip wider.

“ _Ahhhh_ \- ” His own yell sounded like it came from a long way away.

“Oi, keep it down, _baka_... Okay, let’s walk him.”

 

 

Zoro's feet dragged and slipped on the floor, the grip under his arms still holding him up as he moved from light into darkness. Back into light.

“Get him on there. Move out the way, damn it!”

Something pressing against his legs, gravity swinging suddenly again so that he was falling, his hands clutching at air before he felt a surface under his back. Feet lifted up ungently so that he was lying flat with the light bright overhead now, making him narrow his eyes until a head broke across it in dark silhouette.

“Jesus. Nice work.” A voice that sounded weirdly familiar, laced with disapproval. “The rest of you get the hell out of my light. I can handle things from here.”

 

 

Zoro felt fingers hook under the neck of his t-shirt, lift it away from his skin: saw a flicker of silver and heard the soft sound of cloth being cut. A slight tug and then movement, coolness of air against his skin for a second – then something soft pressed down on his chest that sent fire tearing from shoulder to hip. A ragged sound broke from him as his back arched off the thing he was lying on, his hand coming up to push whatever was touching him away.

“Settle down.” The face above him came closer, coming out of silhouette. Mousy-blonde hair and hard grey eyes. Dr Nick, leaning over him and gripping Zoro’s wrist with one hand; pressing a dressing against Zoro’s chest with the other. “You have a major laceration and you’re gonna bleed the fuck out unless you hold still and let me work.”

 

 

Zoro blinked, trying to get his vision to come clear. Feeling the doctor’s grip tight around his wrist. Trying to focus on that instead of on searing line running across his body. Feeling other things: sweat crawling cold down the sides of his face and his neck. Shakes running through him, shivering out his breath. And the words the doctor had just said breaking apart and reassembling in his brain.

_\- Bleed_

_the fuck_

_out_

 

 

“...Nnn...” He couldn’t breathe in deep enough. Past the hand holding the fire on his chest. “...Nnnot... gonna...”

“Word of advice, fella.” Dr Nick released his wrist and reached to one side. “Your input is not required at this time. Lie still and save your energy.” He brought his hand back, placing a second dressing lower down and leaning against it.

Zoro jerked against the surface he was lying on, breath shocked out of him. “ – _Fffuck -_ ”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Dr Nick sounded totally unrepentant. “Kinda basic, but nothing works better in the event of blood loss than applying direct pressure to the wound. Commonsense trauma medicine: listen and learn. And don’t worry, I’ve fixed up worse than this after these kind of shindigs.” His hand moved: picked up Zoro’s and shifted it, bringing it over his body. “Another thing that works, is keeping the casualty involved in his own care process. Gives him something to think about, aside from the obvious.” He firmly placed Zoro’s hand over the dressing on his upper chest, pressing down over the younger man’s fingers.

 

 

“ _Guhh_ \- ”

“Keep a steady pressure on.” Dr Nick let go, before repeating the process with Zoro’s other hand for the lower dressing. “We want to slow down the bleeding. I’ll take a closer look in a minute. You using anything?”

Breathing hard through clenched teeth, Zoro tried to make sense of the question. “Nghh... Uhh?...”

The doctor’s fingers found the pulse at Zoro’s neck; grey eyes studying his face as he held them there. “Non-prescribed drugs. Meth, coke; whatever.”

“...No.”

“Uh huh.” Dr Nick gave a brief nod, turning away. “Then it’s your lucky day.”

 

 

There was a clink, the sound of something clinking against a metal surface. A pause. Then Dr Nick turned back, holding a syringe. He flicked one fingernail against it a couple of times with a clean brittle sound; depressed the plunger until a drop of liquid beaded on the needle’s tip. “No allergies to any medication?”

Zoro managed to focus on the syringe. “The fuck... is that?”

“Five mg of morphine sulphate. Only the best shit, for you lucky losers.” Dr Nick took hold of Zoro’s left arm, unfolding it, and swabbed the skin: carefully placed the needle. “Get ready to go ask Alice.”

Zoro felt the tiny sting of the needle, and then a burn that crept up his arm. Felt his mind following it, turning away from anything else, as Dr Nick took his hand and placed it back over the dressing on his chest. “Keep that steady pressure on.”

 

 

Several minutes later the pain was still there, but Zoro wasn’t feeling it the same way. As if the morphine had taken it and shoved it into some alternate universe: he knew it still existed, but it was like it was happening to someone else. Like this whole scenario was happening to someone else.

Dr Nick appeared back in his field of view, looking down on him assessingly. “Okay. Time to get creative with my needlework. You gonna manage to lie still, or do I need to call for some hands-on assistance?”

It took an effort to talk from that alternate universe. Zoro’s mouth felt like it was full of cotton. “...M’okay. Don’t need... that.”

“Sure about that?” The doctor regarded him, eyes sober. “You start dancing about on this table, it’s not gonna be conducive to fine embroidery.”

“Just... fucking... do it.”

Dr Nick gave a brief, unamused smile. “Fine. This may take a while.”

 

 

How long it actually took, Zoro didn’t know. After washing out the wound with something that stung like a motherfucker, the doctor starting suturing at the top of the slash, where Mihawk’s kriegsmesser had sliced into Zoro just under his collarbone.

That sewing together muscle and skin was such an effortful and time-consuming business, Zoro hadn’t known before. Dr Nick plied a needle holder and forceps, driving the small curved needle through and tugging each stitch tight to draw the wound edges closed. Commenting briefly beforehand that he wasn’t bothering with a lidocaine local because of the shot of morphine he’d already pushed.

The pain still felt like it was happening to someone else, but it went on happening. Zoro lay as still as he could, gazing up at the dusty ceiling tiles because if he shut his eyes the only thing he could focus on was the progress of the needle down his chest.

 

 

It was a clatter of metal against metal that brought him up out of his self-induced semi trance. Blinking to clear the blurriness from his vision, Zoro felt water spill from the corners of his eyes and track cool lines down the sides of his head.

“So far, so good.” Dr Nick leaned beside him, unwrapping a dressing from its package. “I’ve closed the wound up, using an extensive selection of my finest mattress sutures. Not the neatest work I ever did, but time is of the essence here.”

Zoro swallowed, feeling dryness in his throat. “...Unhh?”

The doctor paused, looking down at him. “As in, they want you out of here soonest. Show’s over: the only thing holding up housekeeping is you.”

That figured. Zoro had done what he’d come there for. Or he’d done something else: screwed up Takenaka’s big fight night, by throwing the ending the way he had.

 

 

Dr Nick seemed to be reading his thoughts. “And if I were you, my friend, I’d make tracks out of here. They are not impressed by your performance tonight. Not at all.”

Zoro felt his face pull into a grimacing smile. “Tough... shit.”

The doctor’s eyebrows hiked up. “Hope you weren’t planning on getting back into the fight business after this. Because I doubt you’ll be getting another invite.”

That meant it had been worth it. “...Good.”

 

 

Dr Nick let out a grunt. Before continuing to unwind the securing bandage from the dressing he was holding. “I’m gonna put a couple of dressings over this. Keep it covered for forty-eight hours, then take these off and check for signs of infection. Clean the wound off, use mild soap and water. Don’t fuck around with hydrogen peroxide or sanitiser gel, you’ll slow down the wound healing and wind up with a bigger scar than you’re already gonna have. Replace the dressings every couple of days. After two weeks or so you can take the stitches out yourself: there’s a couple of nifty videos on YouTube that show you how. Have fun playing doctor.” He laid the dressing carefully along the top half of the stitched slash. “Had a tetanus shot recently?”

“Not – since I was a kid.” Zoro found himself wincing at the reapplied pressure against his wound.

“Then I’ll stick you with one of those before you go off on your merry. Hold this.” The doctor guided Zoro’s hand to his chest, to hold the dressing in place while he began winding round the securing bandage.

 

 

The final binding up was finished and Dr Nick was clearing away his medical kit when the door to the small room they were in creaked open. Both looked up, to see Kazuo entering the room.

The enforcer walked up to the table where Zoro sat, chest swathed by the white dressings. He studied the younger man silently for a moment. Then moved his hand abruptly, tossing a folded wad of notes onto the table next to him. “Your cut.” The words were heavy with irony.

Zoro looked at the money, but made no move to pick it up. “Doesn’t look like two thousand.”

“ ‘Cos it’s not, _baka_.” Kazuo gestured with his thumb at Dr Nick. “You’re paying for his services. Also: after the stunt you pulled in there?” He leaned in close. “You’re lucky we didn’t just toss you in a dumpster out back, you smartass fuck.”

 

 

Zoro met the other man’s flatly angry black gaze. “Guess your boss didn’t feel like dealing with that kind of mess.”

Kazuo let out a hard breath. “Take the fucking money and disappear. I ever see your face again, _kisama,_ I will pick up where Mihawk left off.” He stepped away, shooting a glance at the hovering medic. “Finish up quick with this shithead; and make sure you clear this room afterwards.”

“Sure.” Dr Nick simply nodded, his face deadpan. Kazuo gave Zoro one final deadly look, before turning and leaving.

 

 

After the slam of the door shutting behind the enforcer died away, the doctor raised an eyebrow. “If not making any friends here tonight was your plan, congratulations on its flawless execution.” He picked up something from a nearby chair and held it out: Zoro’s grey hoodie. “You want a hand on with this?”

For an answer, Zoro took the hoodie from the doctor’s outstretched hand. Slowly slid one arm into it, then the other; gingerly pulled the hoodie closed over his chest and drew up the zip, before picking up the money and sliding it into one pocket. Then sat holding onto the edge of the table for a moment.

Dr Nick picked up the bloody remains of the t-shirt he’d cut off his patient, stuffing it into a yellow plastic garbage sack; following it with bloody gauze, and plastic packaging from supplies he’d used. He paused for a moment and fixed Zoro with a look. “The doctor’s office is now closed.” Reaching to one side he picked up a small brown plastic bottle and tossed it to the younger man: it rattled as Zoro caught it. “Ativan.” At Zoro’s frown, Dr Nick clarified. “Morphine. Few days’ supply in there. You’re going to need it.”

 

 

Slowly Zoro tucked the morphine away in his pocket with the money, before carefully standing up. His legs gave a little as they took his weight: he stood for a moment with the edge of the table hard against his hip, waiting the dizziness out. Then straightened up and walked to the door. Dr Nick’s voice followed him.

“Always nice to have a repeat customer. Have a nice day now.”

 

 

 

 

 

The passageway Zoro stepped out into led past other closed doors. He walked along it unsteadily, towards the end where the unknown Japanese guy he’d seen earlier in the evening waited by a security door. The man silently opened it and Zoro stepped outside into cold night air. The _clunk_ of the door closing behind him cut off the light of the building inside, leaving him standing in the empty parking lot in the dark.

Pulling up his hood, Zoro took a long breath in... Then began to walk.

 

 

He’d only been under way a few minutes when a figure appeared in his path, pushing itself upright from the shadows against a boarded-up industrial unit. As the man turned to face him Zoro recognised his opponent from earlier that night. Pain spiked across his chest as he came to a halt. “...The fuck do you want?”

Mihawk’s face was hard to read in the darkness. “Curiosity is one of my few vices. And I’m curious to know what makes a man try to throw his life away.”

Zoro let out a short exhalation. “Standing right here. I didn’t throw anything away.”

“Ah. Then I misread the situation.” Mihawk smiled: Zoro could see that. “In that case... Kudos.”

Zoro wasn’t sure what the other swordsman meant. “For what?”

“For an interesting fight.” The smile sharpened. “As promised.”

 

 

For some reason, Zoro felt an answering grim smile coming to his own face. “If I ever run into you again... I guarantee it’ll be a lot more interesting.”

“Something to look forward to,” asserted Mihawk. “If you live that long.”

“Yeah, well...” Zoro held the other man’s gaze. “I’m done with this shit. For good.”

“A sensible choice. Good luck.” Mihawk nodded. Before turning and walking away.

Zoro watched him go. And from out of the past Bayani’s words came into his mind, as they had before.

_\- Fighting isn’t a good way to live._

 

 

He was done. With fighting: with Takenaka, and Kazuo. With all of it.

It felt like some kind of weight had shifted off his shoulders. And he kept that thought floating ahead of him, like a tethered balloon, to keep him on his feet long enough to get home.

 

 

 

 

 

_Streetlights. Pavement hard under the soles of his trainers. Walking from one pool of light to the next, traversing the darkness in between._

Zoro found himself listening to his own heartbeat, as he tried to push the key into the lock of his apartment door. Resting his head against the wood, the firm coolness feeling good against his sweaty skin. Listening to the speedy _thrum-thrum_ of the blood in his ears. Breathing shallow and fast, his lips dry.

_Thirsty._

 

 

Once he got inside he headed for the kitchen sink, holding a mug from nearby under the tap and watching it fill with water, overflow. Drinking it down and filling it again, water spilling as his hand shook.

Walking to his bed was like crossing a continent. When he got there he sat on its edge, before folding over sideways, bracing one arm to support himself down. The pain in its parallel universe was coming closer.

_Still got my shoes on._

Overhead the light burned. Zoro shut his eyes, and made the world go away.

 

 

 

 

 

_Waking._

When he opened his eyes the light hurt. Zoro squinted at it, dry-mouthed. Started to turn onto his side, curl his arm over to block the light out.

“ – _Aagh!”_

Pain sliced across his front like a lightning bolt, making him suck in air and lie rigid against the bed, willing it to stop.

The fire lessened marginally to a knifing ache.

_Fucking shitting HELL_

 

 

After a few seconds, Zoro managed to open his eyes again and stare blearily at his own arm curled on the bedcovers.

_The fuck am I doing here_

Thoughts swirled and broke in his head: reassembled slowly, tugged along by the pain. Memories coming back. The fight. His broken katana. Standing in front of Mihawk with his arms spread wide.

Lying on the table in the back room while Dr Nick stitched his way down the length of his body.

 

 

Another sharp pain zagged its way along the path of the wound, making Zoro twitch. “ – _Nghh_.”

His eyes shut briefly. Setting his teeth together he shifted his attention to his breath and held it there, counting in and out, one to five, over and over.

It didn’t help much.

 

 

After a little while Zoro opened his eyes again. Gazed dully at his arm and the bed. Gradually becoming aware that as well as the _(Don’t think just breathe)_   pain there was a lesser sensation in his hip. As if he was lying on something hard.

Turning infinitely slowly and carefully onto his back and moving his hand down, he delved into his pocket. His fingers closed around a stiff papery lump, and something small and round. He tugged them both out and regarded the results. A lot of banknotes tightly folded together, and a small brown plastic bottle.

_\- Morphine. Few days’ supply in there. You’re going to need it._

 

 

There looked to be several of the white tablets. Zoro wondered briefly what the dose was, then decided he didn’t give a fuck.

He levered himself up and managed to waver the few steps to the kitchen, clutching the bottle. Refilled the mug with water and chugged two of the tablets down, before staggering back to bed. Detouring on the way only to hit the light switch and plunge the room into darkness.

Moving around had made everything hurt a lot more, and it took a while for the pills to kick in. Zoro filled the time by returning to counting breaths in fives, until everything greyed out for a while.

 

 

 

 

 

The next time he woke up it was daylight, and the pain was back.

After downing a couple more tablets, he went on an unsteady bathroom mission. On the way back he saw his phone lying on the table.

_How long’ve I been out?_

He sat down heavily on the couch, switching the phone on. The date when it came up stunned him: Tuesday.

_That motherfucking medic said I had to change the dressings after a couple of days._

That meant some attention was overdue. Zoro frowned, not much liking the thought of what he had to do. And then a notification on his phone caught his eye. A text waiting to be read.

 

 

It was from Kuina. Quickly he opened it.

_‘U up for usual practice 2moro nite?’_

Zoro frowned at the screen. Before typing in a short reply. _‘Can’t this week things 2 do.’_  And then switching his phone off and laying it back down on the table.

 

 

He returned to the bathroom, armed with a couple of large dressings raided from a first aid kit he’d put together since kendo had become the biggest part of his life. Unzipped his hoodie and shucked it off, hissing at the darts of pain this produced.

Both the dressings on his chest now had rusty dark areas on them. Zoro regarded them warily... Before starting the slow process of unwinding the securing bandage on each one.

When he tried to peel the first dressing off, it stuck. Which he’d expected to happen; and which was why he’d filled the washbasin with warm water.

 

 

Soaking and then slowly prying off the bloody dressings eventually worked. And hurt like a motherfucker. As did cleaning the stitched-up gash, and putting on the new dressings afterwards. By the time he’d finished, Zoro was sweating hard, hands shaking so much he could barely tie the securing bandages in place.

At last he was done. He leaned with both hands braced on the washbasin for a moment, taking shallow breaths. Waiting for the fire to subside a little.

When he looked up, his reflection met him in the mirror. Ghost pale: brows drawn down in a tense line, jaw set.

_Fuck this._

 

 

Pushing up from the basin, he walked slowly back to the other room, carrying his hoodie. His sweat-damp skin felt cold, but his head felt hot: Zoro foraged in the nearest drawer and pulled out the loosest t-shirt he could find, pulling it on over his head with a muffled groan. Then he slumped down onto the bed and lay on his back, feeling the _thump-thump_ of his heartbeats shake him. Waiting for Dr Nick’s tablets to kick in.

 

 

He slept hard, for long incoherent dream-filled hours. Woke thirsty in darkness: got up to drink water, take painkillers. Slept again.

Once when he woke up it was daytime and hunger was kicking in, so he found the end of a sliced loaf and folded it around some peanut butter: washed the whole thing down with a half carton of juice. Then went back to sleep.

Sometimes when he opened his eyes it was dark again. Sometimes daylight was shining on the wall opposite his bed. Slowly tracking sideways as he came near the surface and went under again.

 

 

 

 

 

_Bam. Bam._

Impacts like gunshots reverberating through Zoro’s dreams. Thunderclaps starting him awake, on his back under twisted bedcovers: sweat sticking his clothes to his skin, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it was going to jump out of his chest.

_Bam. Bam._

This time the sound was external. Someone knocking, or rather hammering on his apartment door. Zoro blinked up at the ceiling and tried to pull back the bits of his brain that had gone elsewhere.

_Bam._

Then a muffled voice. “Zoro, are you in there? ‘Cos I will kick this door down if you don’t answer me!”

Kuina.

Zoro shut his eyes for a moment. Then opened them again; sat up. At once a line of fire tore down his chest, so that he froze bent over, gripping his knees.

 

 

“Zoro? Wake up and get the damn door!”

He managed to push the covers off; swing his legs off the bed and get his feet onto the floor. He stood up, then walked unsteadily towards the apartment door. Before he reached it he had to lean against the wall for a second. He glanced down at himself; at what he was wearing. The cargo pants and t-shirt, both the worse for wear for him having been sweating through them under the bedclothes. And more importantly, _fuck,_ there was blood on the t-shirt: the dressings on his chest must need changing again.

 

 

Zoro detoured to reach for the hoodie that lay flung on the nearby couch: pulled it on and zipped it up, biting down on a groan before stumbling over to the door.

Another flurry of angry thuds signified that Kuina’s patience was about to run out. “ _Aho_ , I swear I will bust down this door in ten seconds!”

“Okay, goddamnit!” Zoro yelled back. Reaching up to the lock sent another lightning bolt of pain across his body: he swore under his breath as he released the lock and eased the door open.

 

 

Kuina stood on the doorstep, glaring. “About time, fuckwit! I’ve been hammering on this door for nearly five minutes. You gonna let me in?”

Zoro frowned at her, trying not to let the fact that he was using the doorframe to help hold himself up show. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, as you haven’t been answering your phone for four days, I figured the only way to find out what the hell was up with you was to come over.” Kuina stepped through the doorway and into the apartment.

Zoro closed the door and followed after her. His head was a fog.

_Four days?_

 

 

His gaze fell down, onto the table near the couch. His phone, lying where he’d dropped it. Its screen was dark: he remembered turning it off, after replying to Kuina’s text... When had that been?

Kuina looked at his bed, with the tangled covers fallen half on the floor. “Wow, this place is a mess.” She turned and regarded him. “And you look like shit.”

“Thanks.” Zoro moved across to the couch, becoming aware that if he didn’t sit down he was going to fall down. “Got the ‘flu.” He let himself lower onto the couch, moving slowly and carefully.

 

 

“Ugh.” Kuina was studying his face. “You do look pretty bad. That buys you a reprieve.”

“From what?” Zoro let his head rest against the back of the couch.

Kuina looked at him silently for a moment. Then gave a half-shake of her head. “You must be delirious. You forgot?”

“Forgot?”

“ _Aho_... The kendo tournament. Yesterday.” When Zoro made no answer, she folded her arms across her chest. “The one you were supposed to be competing in?”

 

 

Zoro blinked, then let out a breath. “Fuck.”

Kuina regarded him severely. “I called you Friday night after you missed kendo class, and just kept getting your answering service. Then when you didn’t show up at the tournament yesterday, and didn’t call to tell me you weren’t going to show...” She scowled at him.

“Sorry.” Zoro grimaced. “...I’ve just been really out of it.”

“Yeah, you look it.” Kuina regarded him a moment longer, then nodded at the shoulder bag she was carrying. “Lucky for you, I’ve brought a care package. Miso-shiru and soba.”

“That’s... great.” Zoro felt even worse now. “I’m really sorry. About missing the tournament.”

 

 

Kuina moved to the table and started unpacking her bag, setting a large thermos and a wrapped container on there. “Guess it couldn’t be helped. I had to run some serious interference with _chichi_ , though. He didn’t say anything except to ask me if I knew where you were, but I could tell he was pissed.”

Zoro could imagine. Flaking out on a kendo tournament with no explanation didn’t just make himself look bad: it showed disrespect for Koshiro too. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Yeah. You better.” Kuina finished unpacking her bag. “You got a clean bowl to eat out of? Or am I gonna find your kitchen a total disaster area?”

“Uh... No more than usual.” Zoro tried to think quickly. _Did I throw those dressings away?_  A vague memory of balling the bloody gauze into a crumpled pile surfaced. He needed to check the bathroom before Kuina saw it. “I haven’t exactly been polishing the fixtures and fittings.”

“Shocker.” Kuina snorted. “I’ll see what I can find.”

“Great. I’m just gonna go, uh...” Zoro waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the bathroom.

“Spare me the details.” Kuina was already moving to the kitchen area.

 

 

Zoro stood up again: waited a few seconds for the room to stop moving, then headed through to the bathroom.

 _ Fuck _ _._

The soiled bloody dressings lay on the floor, under the sink: the ones he’d changed a couple of days ago – no, shit, _four_ days he’d been out of it. He bent to pick it up and had to hold on to the edge of the sink, gritting his teeth.

_Four days?_

He had no clear recollection of the last week. Just of getting back here after the fight; passing out on the bed. And then waking up from time to time to drink water and swallow painkillers. And change the dressings... However many days ago.

 

 

He balled the soiled dressings up and hid them in a pile of dirty laundry, to be disposed of later after Kuina had gone. Checked the rest of the bathroom: then headed back to the main room.

He came into the space just as Kuina advanced into it from the opposite direction, from the kitchen area. At once his heart gave a thud: her face was set in controlled rage. Stopping just inside the room, she held something up in her clenched fist. “What the hell is this?” Her fist shook the object and it rattled. The small brown bottle of morphine tablets that Dr Nick had given him.

Zoro looked at it, then at her. “They’re - painkillers. For the flu.”

“Like fuck.” Kuina’s mouth thinned out. “I know what over-the-counter painkillers look like. These are not them.” She brandished the bottle at him. “So tell me, right now, what these are.”

Zoro’s brain failed him.

His lack of reply only seemed to make Kuina angrier. “ _Uso!”_  She shook the bottle again. “This? This is the reason you blew off the tournament?” She threw the bottle at him, accurately and hard. “ _Kisama!_ You weren’t supposed to be doing this shit any more!”

Zoro threw up an arm as the bottle flew at his face, then winced. “Oi – that’s not why -”

“No wonder you look like the walking dead, if that’s what you’ve been doing all week – zoning out on that kind of junk again! Are you wrong in the head?” Kuina strode across the room towards him. “You managed to quit, but now you’re back messing with that stuff? _Kono yarou!”_   Her arm flew out, her fist slamming into Zoro’s chest.

 

 

The shock of pain literally knocked the air out of Zoro’s lungs. He folded under it, going down onto his knees; and for long moments the world went grey and blurred and a hissing roar filled his ears.

When the roar faded a little he became aware of two things: of how much his chest hurt, and Kuina’s voice, fading in from a distance. “...going on? Zoro, look at me! Zoro?”

He waited until the pain let him breathe. Feeling her hand on his shoulder, her fingers gripping there. Opened his eyes and saw his hands, resting on his knees: two clenched fists.

 

 

“Zoro? Talk to me. What the hell is going on?” Kuina’s voice was unsteady in a way he’d never heard it. Scared.

Taking a breath, Zoro managed to lift his head. And his friend was crouched beside him, her eyes wide. He pulled in a breath. Found his voice, which came out ragged-edged. “...M’okay.”

Kuina breathed in, her hand tightening on his shoulder. “Yeah. You really look okay.” Her eyes darted over him. “Are you hurt?”

Zoro felt an almost-laugh shake from him. “...Oh yeah.”

 

 

Kuina’s brows pulled together. “Shit.” She shook her head. “Let’s get you up off the floor.”

He let her slide her arm under his; steady him as he got to his feet. Walk with him the couple of steps to the couch, where Zoro slid down into sitting with his head fallen back, doing the breathing and counting thing again. Because when nothing else helped, that did. Marginally.

“Zoro.” Kuina sat beside him, her face concerned. “What happened?” Her eyes scanned him. “You been in some kind of fight?”

 

 

Zoro looked at her. Not knowing where to start. Or how much to say.

His lack of response evidently made Kuina default back to anger. “Tell me what the hell is going on, damn it!”

“Will you quit shouting at me?” He found his own voice rising.

“Then start talking, asshole!”

“Fuck \- ” Zoro clenched his teeth, glaring at her. Then lifted his hand to the zipper of his hoodie: yanked it down and lifted one side of the hoodie away, revealing the bloodstained t-shirt beneath.

 

 

Kuina’s eyes got wider again as they fixed on his chest: she pulled in a hard, short breath. Then her gaze lifted back to his face. “What happened?”

“I lost a fight.” Zoro tried to keep it simple. “Got... cut.”

“Cut?” Kuina looked dismayed. “Someone attacked you with a knife?”

“Something like that.”

 

 

She sat still for a moment. Then gave her head a small hard shake. “Take your t-shirt off and let me take a look.”

“No. It’s okay.”

“You’re bleeding through your shirt. That is _not_ okay. Take your damn shirt off, or I will take it off.” She reached for the bottom of his t-shirt and Zoro’s hand flew out and grabbed her wrist: held it still.

“I told you. I’m okay.”

“Humour me.” Kuina gave him a hard, totally humourless smile. “I get off on looking at injuries. That shirt’s coming off, so you’ve got two seconds to do it yourself.”

Zoro let the two seconds stretch... And when she moved to tug her wrist free and renew her assault, he spoke again. “Fuck. _Okay.”_

 

 

Stripping off the t-shirt made things that were already hurting hurt more. But what felt worse was seeing the look on Kuina’s face when she got a load of the bloody dressings bandaged across his body.

She said nothing for a moment. Then her eyes lifted back to meet his. “Okay. Back up. Some guy with a _knife_ did this? Then you – what? Got it patched up at the hospital?” Her eyes lowered again to his chest. “No. You didn’t.”

“I got fixed up. By a doctor.” It occurred to Zoro for the first time that maybe Dr Nick wasn’t an actual doctor, but that was a moot point. “He gave me those painkillers.”

 

 

Kuina’s eyebrows rose, then pulled back down into a frown. “Nice. He say anything about what you ought to do when you started haemorrhaging at home alone?”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Are you kidding me?” Kuina’s voice rose again. “Zoro, you have an eighteen-inch wound across your chest. What kind of doctor treated this? And why aren’t you checking into an E.R. right goddamn now?”

“Because I don’t need to. Like I said: I got fixed up. And I’m not going to a hospital.”

“And what about the guy who did this to you? He just walked away? You didn’t get the police involved?” Her face contorted with frustration. “Look, I know you told me a long time ago that you didn’t want to talk to cops... But this is _serious_. This guy could have killed you.”

“No, he couldn’t. That’s not how it works.” As soon as the words left him, Zoro mentally cursed.

“How what works?” Kuina pounced on this, eyes narrowing.

“Forget it -”

“How _ what _works?”  she repeated, folding her arms across her chest.

 

 

There was a long moment of silence. Then Kuina spoke again. “Okay. If you’re not telling me, I’ll make an educated guess. You’re mixed up in something really dangerous, with bad people. Who don’t worry about leaving casualties as collateral damage.” Her mouth tightened. “Are you taking meth again?”

“ _Fuck._ No.” Zoro ground this out. Feeling a sick jolt slam into his guts. That she would even ask him that.

Kuina looked at him steadily. “Then tell me what’s going on.”

“ _Nothing_ is going on. It’s over.” Taking a breath, Zoro looked away. “It’s over, okay? The – shit I was mixed up in. It’s done with.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah.” He managed to turn his head back to meet her gaze. “I’m damn sure.”

“So why can’t you tell me what it was you were mixed up in?”

“Because.” He gave a half-shake of his head. “You don’t need to know the details.”

“If it wasn’t drugs, what was it? Gangs?”

“No.”

“Guns?”

“No.”

“Then _what ,_ Zoro?” She persisted, refusing to let him go. “Because I’m camping out on this couch until you tell me, _aho_.”

 

 

Zoro closed his eyes. And thought how good it would feel right then to just sleep for a year or two. And maybe not wake up.

A touch made his eyes start open again: Kuina’s hand, resting on his arm. Her eyes finding his own. “Oi. Whatever it is, we can deal.”

 

 

He breathed in. Feeling even that small movement tug and shoot fiery stabs of pain in a diagonal line across his body.

_\- We can deal._

 

 

When he spoke, his voice sounded hoarse. Not like his own. “I got cut fighting. Another guy. For money.”

Kuina’s eyebrows kinked together in confusion. “Fighting... for money?”

“Yeah. I’ve done it before. Over a year ago... I used to fight for money, at a club. Every few weeks I’d show up there, fight guys. People’d lay bets.”

His friend sat upright. Her hand stilled on his. Zoro kept talking.

“I quit... Like I said, about a year ago. When I quit meth. Stopped going there. But the guy who owns the place ran into me a few weeks back, asked me to come fight again.”

“But... why would you do that?” Kuina’s face was starting to fill with dismay. “After you stopped?”

 

 

There was no way in hell Zoro was going to tell her all the truth about that one. “He offered me a fuck of a lot of money. To fight a guy, with my katana instead of hand-to-hand.”

Colour drained from Kuina’s face. “You went up against a guy with your _sword?”_

“He had one too.” Zoro gave her a grim smile. “Guess it was even. I didn’t win,” he added, possibly unnecessarily.

“So if you had won, that would have made things okay?” His friend sounded like she was barely leashing down her anger.

“Well yeah: as maybe then I wouldn’t be sitting here with an eighteen-inch wound across my chest, gotta say that would’ve been preferable,” he rejoined.

 

 

“ _Bakayarou!”_  Her hand clenched painfully hard on his arm, making him wince. “How did you think fighting another human being for real with your katana would work out _okay?_  Everything you ever learned in kendo, in iaido – is that what you think kenjutsu is for? Fighting for money?”

“No. But I didn’t have any fucking option.”

“There’s always a choice!”

“Yeah. And this time I made the choice I had to. For the right reasons. Which I’m not gonna explain to you, but trust me on this.” Zoro took a deep breath: tried to speak slowly. “Sometimes there are no fucking good choices. So you pick the least bad one. Damage limitation.”

Kuina gestured at his chest. “This is damage _limitation?”_

“Yeah. And I’ll get over it.” Zoro nodded, holding her gaze with his own. “And I meant what I said. I’m clear of that shit now. For good.”

 

 

 

There was a moment of quiet between them then. As if they both needed time to process what had been said.

At last Kuina spoke again. “You said... You’d done it before.” At his look, she continued. “Fighting for money. At this... club.”

Zoro nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“There’s something I don’t get.” He regarded her. Kuina’s face was contorted with the effort to understand. “Why?”

 

 

Her question required an answer that contained either too little truth, or too much. Zoro tried to pick a course between the two. “Because I needed the money.”

“There are other ways to make money.” Kuina’s voice was tight.

“Yeah?” Zoro felt frustration rising up in him. “Try finding them, if you never finished high school and you live in a neighbourhood even the cops don’t visit.”

She was silent for a moment. Then nodded, just once. “Okay. I get it. But... after you first started doing this. Fighting in this club. You must have realised it was seriously bad news.”

 

 

Zoro couldn’t deny it. “...Yeah.”

“So why did you keep doing it?”

“Because I was good at it.” Zoro let his mouth twist into mirthless smile.

Kuina regarded him, an incredulous frown coming onto her face. “Are you kidding me?”

 

 

Zoro shook his head. “For real. I was good at it.”

She let her gaze travel down, pointedly, to his chest. “Or not.”

Zoro let out a short huff of laughter. “Yeah, well; this time someone else was better.”

“That’s your answer? You pounded on total strangers for money because you were good at it?” Kuina’s tone had an edge to it.

“You asked me why.” Zoro let his head fall back further so he was staring up at the ceiling, not wanting to see the look of let-down on his friend’s face. “That’s why. Turns out I’ve got a talent for putting the other fucker down. And making sure he stays down. Nine times out of ten, anyway.” His chest ached, an insistent sharp tugging pain that waxed and waned with every breath. “It’s not like I’ve ever been much good at anything else.”

 

 

Kuina let out an angry huff between her teeth. “That’s bullshit.”

Zoro turned his head to look at her again. “I dropped out of school. And even when I was _in_ school, I sucked at it. The only jobs I can get are shitwork: day labouring, cleaning toilets and mopping floors. Most of the people I know are stoners and meth-heads, or headcases like the guys in that club. My own uncle walked out on me.” He gave Kuina a tight, mirthless smile. “When school started sending letters home about me cutting class, he didn’t do shit. Except tell me not to do anything that would make cops turn up on the doorstep.”

“Well, then your uncle sucked big time as a substitute parent. I think that’s pretty clear.”

“Maybe. Maybe he just did the best he could.” Zoro shrugged, then winced. “Nnghh. Fuck.” He lifted one hand in reflex towards his chest; then caught himself just in time. “...Whatever. But I was good at fighting. I could do something other people valued. It felt like, I wasn’t just some total fucking loser. So that’s why I kept doing it. That, and the money.”

_And the buzz._

But there was no way Zoro was going to admit that last one, to Kuina.

 

 

Kuina looked at him as though he was mentally defective. “Zoro: whatever else you are – including being a totally annoying idiot – you are not a loser. And you don’t need to prove that by getting sliced up in some illegal underground fight club.”

Zoro let out a heavy breath. “I don’t plan on doing that again.”

“Good.” Kuina folded her arms. “And you ever say all that shit again, about being a loser, I will kick your ass.”

Zoro gave a quick grin. “You’re always kicking my ass.”

“Yeah, but this time it will be personal.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What you tell yourself, you wind up believing. If you tell yourself you’re a loser, that’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you think you’re worth no better than spending the rest of your life doing dead-end jobs, that’s how your life will turn out. _Chichi_ would tell you the same thing. ‘Aim at nothing and you will hit it, every time.’ ”

 

 

It was true. Zoro could almost hear Koshiro saying it. “Fuck... I don’t _want_ to live the way I have been. That’s why I kicked the drugs. That’s why I’m doing day labouring and cleaning floors, working fucking graveyard shifts for peanuts. What the hell else am I gonna do? I’m a high school dropout and ex-tweaker, with zero skills a legit employer is gonna want to hire me for. Maybe I could get work being a bouncer somewhere; except for the problem that my only previous experience involves _taking part_ in illegal fights instead of stopping them. I’m not fucking giving up: but right now all I have is that last fistful of cash those guys gave me, a gash across my chest which is gonna hurt like a bastard until it heals up, and nothing else. I don’t even have my katana any more because the son of a bitch I fought with cleaved it in two.”

“Well, yeah: because when you do stupid things like real fighting with real swords, that’s what happens.” Kuina’s reply was singularly lacking in sympathy.

“Oi...” Zoro growled.

 

 

“ _Aho_. Grow up.” Kuina leaned across and punched him hard enough on the thigh that Zoro winced.

“The fuck! What was that for?”

“If I have to listen to you whining one minute longer, I’ll punch you somewhere it’ll hurt a lot more. You messed up. So don’t mess up again. Decide you’re going to do something better with your life, and _do it_.”

“Right.” Zoro scowled.

Kuina gave him a steady look. “You’ve got things in your life that are worth valuing, worth putting energy into. You have work: okay, pretty crappy work, but it’ll pay the bills. You’re off the drugs. You’ve got somewhere to live. There are people out there who don’t have even _one_ of those things - and you have them. Because you worked at making them happen. And you have something else, too.”

“What?”

“Kendo. You’re gonna be really good. You could be up there with the best kendōka in the country, one day. And you know it. Or you should do.”

 

 

There was a short silence. At last Zoro broke it. “You mean that?”

 “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. You’re already beating people in our dojo who’ve been competing for years. Pretty soon there won’t be anyone there who can take you. Except me, of course.” She gave him a sharp grin.

Zoro smiled at that. “For now.”

“For _ever_.” Kuina’s grin widened a little, showing her teeth. “I’ll still be handing you your ass fifty years from now.”

“Hell you will.” Zoro crossed his arms across his chest, forgetting – then jolted and brought them away. “Aghh! Shit...”

 

 

Kuina watched him, and her grin changed into a wry look. “Not that you’re gonna be fighting _anybody_   for a few weeks at least...”

“I’ll be back in the dojo next week,” Zoro stated firmly.

“Yeah, because ripping open your stitches will really help.” Kuina rolled her eyes. “No-brainer. You’ve missed the tournament anyway, no point coming back to training until you’re healed up. _Chichi_ will notice there’s something wrong with you.”

“I’ll be back next week,” Zoro repeated. “And I’ll call him and apologise for flaking out of the tournament.”

“What are you going to tell him? Just so’s I know what to say if he asks me about seeing you today.”

“Just say I was sick. Bad dose of ’flu, whatever.”

 

 

Kuina regarded him. “I hate to break it to you, but I doubt he’s gonna buy that if you seriously plan on showing up at the dojo next week. You look kinda see-through. You really should rest up a while.”

“I’ll be okay by next week.” Zoro hoped this was true.

“Hm.” Kuina didn’t sound convinced. “It’s not just getting a sword stuck in your chest you’ve got to get over.” Her gaze shifted across the room, and Zoro followed it. To where the bottle of morphine tablets still lay on the floor.

He felt his mouth tighten. “I didn’t take many.”

“How many?”

His memory was hazy. “...A few.”

“Today?”

“No.” Although he wasn’t sure about that. Wasn’t sure about anything, from the last week.

 

 

Kuina held his gaze for a moment. Then nodded slowly. “I’m taking that bottle away with me when I go.”

“Yeah. Do it.” Zoro didn’t even need to consider that one.

“Have you got stuff here that’ll help?”

Zoro released a heavy breath and let his head rest back against the couch. “Dunno.”

“Okay.” Kuina nodded again. “Then I’ll do a supply run to the corner store before I go. Stock you up with some things. Fruit juice. Advil.”

“Thanks.”

 

 

“You gonna be okay if I leave you?” Kuina still gazed at him.

“I’ll be fine.” Zoro gave her a wry smile. “It’s not like I haven’t done cold turkey before.”

“Yeah, but not with an eighteen-inch wound across your chest.” She stood up. “I’ll come round again tomorrow evening.”

“You don’t need to. I’ll be okay.”

“Zoro.” Kuina looked down at him on the couch. “For once in your goddamn life, let someone help. It’s not like you’re doing such a great job managing on your own, right now.”

 

 

That went home. For the past few days Zoro had been hurting. A lot. And alongside the physical pain, there had been the sense of defeat: of life once more presenting him with a shitty hand, and him failing yet again to play it any way but badly. And to have Kuina, his only real friend, spell it out _that_ clearly...

He didn’t want to be helped, because this was his own mess, and he would clear it up. But he couldn’t argue with her assessment. So he said nothing.

She studied his face, her own mouth twisting a little. “Don’t look like that. I just meant, you need some help right now. So take it. Don’t keep on with the stubborn macho bullshit, you know how much that pisses me off.”

 

 

For once Zoro chose the path of least resistance. “Okay.” And after a brief pause, added awkwardly, “Thanks.”

Kuina gave a half-shake of her head, a small smile coming onto her face. “No problem.” She regarded him for a moment longer... Then nodded towards the kitchen. “I’ll head out now to the corner store. You ought to eat that food I brought, before it gets cold.”

“Uh huh.” Zoro also looked towards the kitchen. “You cook it yourself?”

“Yeah...” Her expression became wary. “Why?”

“No reason.” They’d exchanged enough honesty for one encounter session. And it wasn’t Kuina’s fault she was a truly horrible cook. Miso soup and noodles should be impossible to fuck up, but he suspected she would somehow have managed it. “There’s some money on the nightstand.”

 

 

Kuina crossed the room and found the wad of notes he’d put there: extracted a bill from it, before turning and looking at him soberly. “This your fight money?”

“Yeah.”

One corner of her mouth lifted wryly. “Worth it?”

He gave her a slow grin. “As it happens.”

Letting out a snort, she turned away and moved to the door. “Back in fifteen. Eat your food.”

The click of the apartment door shutting behind her left a quietness behind it.

 

 

Zoro sat still, for long minutes. Turning over in his mind everything that had just happened.

_\- What you tell yourself, you wind up believing. If you tell yourself you’re a loser, that’s a self-fulfilling prophecy._

 

 

He couldn’t actually remember a time when he had thought he was anything else. Except when he’d been high on meth or the buzz of a fight, and that never lasted for long.

_\- You could be up there with the best kendōka in the country, one day._

Kuina hadn’t been bullshitting him. She’d meant it. And her opinion mattered. Not just because she was a shit-hot kendōka herself... But because she was the only actual real friend Zoro had. And because she’d seen him at his lowest ebb: fucked-up from using meth, and now fucked-up for a different reason. And she knew now, almost every ugly thing about him. And she hadn’t turned away.

 

 

_\- Whatever else you are – including being a totally annoying idiot – you are not a loser._

 

 

Zoro’s mouth set in a determined line.

_Never again._

The wound across his chest burned with a steady ache. He’d carry its reminder for the rest of his days, of what he’d done. Of the bad choices he’d made. The damage; screwed-up parts of himself which would always be there, like scarred flesh. Inescapably part of him.

_Can’t fucking change any of that._

It helped, having Kuina. Having at least one other person in the world whom he trusted; who he knew actually gave a fuck if he was around. Even if he wasn’t used to this: the weird push and pull, tugging at his edges; their conversations that were half confrontation, half confession. It made him feel uncomfortably exposed. But it made him feel better, too.

 

 

Zoro got up and fetched a bowl from the kitchen. Poured the still-hot miso soup over the noodles, and ate it slowly, sitting on the couch. Trying not to wonder how the fuck he finally got lucky, finding a friend who would always be there for him.

His mouth twisted, as he ate another mouthful of her food.

_Shit. This soup’s really fucking dire._

It was nothing to smile about; but he smiled, anyway.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes (Japanese):  
> mae, kesa giri = different types of iaido kata  
> kenjutsu = swordsmanship / sword technique  
> choji hamon = tempering line on a sword's blade, with a wavy pattern  
> kabuki = traditional Japanese theatre  
> makeinu = loser (literally 'loser dog')  
> furyo shonen = bad boys / juvenile delinquents  
> yamero = enough / cut it out  
> nani teme? = what the hell you think you're doing, motherfucker?  
> haegum (Korean word) = Korean violin-like instrument  
> kangaete mite = think about it  
> chinpira = gang member / young low-status yakuza  
> yowamushi = wimp / weakling / coward  
> uso = liar  
> kono yarou = you bastard
> 
>  
> 
> A kriegsmesser seemed like the closest match to Mihawk's sword Yoru... Check out some pictures of these ancient German swords, they are seriously mean-looking. Essentially long pieces of sharp metal whose only purpose is hacking an opponent into tiny bits. I once met a woman whose hobby was broadsword fighting, she told me a lot of interesting stuff about it. Including how once during a sparring match, one guy didn't remember to be careful and almost cleaved his opponent's arm off. Ouchie.
> 
> A big thank you as ever to all those of you who are reading and posting comments. It really does give me a lift when I know people are liking this fic.
> 
> (...And for all those of you who've been missing a certain curly-browed cook, he returns in the next chapter.)


	8. Too Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a feeling like he was skating out over creaking ice, Zoro pushed himself away from the safety of shore. “Everyone’s got bad shit in their past. Me included.”
> 
> Sanji nodded slowly, his eyes resting on the swordsman. “Yeah. I know. You told me.”
> 
> “I didn’t tell you all of it.”
> 
> “I didn’t expect you to talk about - ”
> 
> “Last weekend.” Zoro cut in, knowing that if he didn’t do this now, it was only going to get harder. “You asked me how I got the scar on my chest.”
> 
> “Huh?” Sanji regarded him. “Yeah... What of it?”
> 
> “What I told you... that I got it in a bar fight.” Zoro took a slow, deliberate breath. Then threw caution to the winds. “That’s not the truth.”
> 
> Sanji’s brows drew together slightly. He said nothing, his gaze staying on the swordsman.

 

* * *

 

 _Don’t get too close_  
_It’s dark inside_  
_It’s where my demons hide_

_\- Imagine Dragons_

 

* * *

 

_(Seven years later:  back in the here and now.)_

 

 

Zoro woke up, to find himself lying on his back on his bed. He stared up at the ceiling for several seconds, reassembling his thoughts. Bringing himself back from where he’d gone. In his memories, before he’d fallen asleep. In his dreams, after that.

Sunlight slanted across the room at a low angle.

_Shit. How long’ve I been asleep?_

 

 

He sat up and swung his legs off the bed, before crossing to where he’d left his phone on the desk. Switching it on, he checked the time: almost six o’clock.

While holding it he noticed that the phone was showing a text waiting to be read, from Sanji. Frowning slightly, Zoro slid his thumb across the screen to open the message.

_‘Hey mosshead: you want to grab some takeout on your way back over here?’_

 

 

Zoro lifted a hand and scrubbed it through his hair, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. Typed a quick reply.

_‘Yeah sure – what kind you want?’_

After a few seconds, Sanji’s reply blipped back. _‘Chinese, Indian, wtvr.’_

 _‘OK will be there by 7.’_ Zoro’s thumb hovered for a moment over the keyboard, as he tried to decide whether or not to add anything further – then he hit send.

Sanji’s answer was succinct. _‘Cool c u soon.’_

Pocketing his phone, Zoro headed for the bathroom to throw some cold water over his face.

 

 

 

 

 

When he got to Sanji’s apartment, the chef opened the door with a smile. “You made good time. Didn’t have to wait long for the food?”

“Nope.” Zoro handed over the bag of Chinese takeout, before toeing off his boots.

“Mm.” Sanji opened the top of the bag slightly. “Smells good. You want wine with this? I’ve opened some Pinot Noir, it’s chilling in the fridge.”

For an answer Zoro held up a six-pack he’d taken out of his backpack. Sanji rolled his eyes slightly. “Okay, forget I asked.”

 

 

Following the chef through to the main room, Zoro addressed the other man’s back. “Thought you said those anti-inflammatories didn’t mix too good with alcohol?”

Sanji snorted. “One glass of wine isn’t gonna hurt.”

“Uh huh,” Zoro grunted.

Turning to glance at him, Sanji smirked. “If I pass out, you’ll just have to carry me to bed.”

Zoro raised one eyebrow. “I’ll cover you with a blanket. You can sleep on the couch.”

“Asshole.” The chef gave a half shake of his head, before heading through to the kitchen.

 

 

 

 

 

They ate without talking much. Once they’d reached the fortune cookie stage, they stacked the empty containers and plates on a tray that Sanji had brought through, and Zoro took them to the kitchen. He returned with another beer – his third – and sat back on the couch.

“Did you put the dishes to soak in the sink?”

“Yeah. And I tossed the leftovers.”

“I _said,_ put them in the fridge.” Sanji scowled at him.

“There was hardly anything left, shit cook.” Zoro took a swallow of beer.

“I don’t like wasting food.”

“The rats in the city dump will get to eat Chinese. You’re making a cultural contribution to animal welfare.”

“Shithead.” Sanji sighed. Settling himself carefully back against the couch, wincing slightly, he held out a small plastic-wrapped fortune cookie. “Here.”

Zoro regarded it, before shaking his head. “Don’t like those things.”

 

 

Sanji gave him a look. “No-one likes _eating_ them, moss-head. The whole point’s the fortune inside.” He proffered the fortune cookie again.

After a moment’s pause, Zoro took it. Sanji picked up his own fortune cookie and ripped its wrapper open: broke the little wafer and extracted the slip of paper from inside. Flattening it out between his fingers, he read the fortune out. “ ‘No-one likes to suffer, no-one likes to feel pain: but you can’t have a rainbow without a little rain.’ ” His eyebrows quirked. “Hah. Cliché, but weirdly relevant.” He popped the broken cookie into his mouth and munched on it. “What’s yours?”

Zoro read it out. “ ‘Knowing others is wisdom; knowing yourself is enlightenment.’ ”

“Mine’s better.” Sanji grinned. “It rhymes.”

Zoro crumpled the paper between his fingers before tossing it into the ashtray on the table, along with the broken cookie itself. “Uh huh.”

 

 

The chef picked up his wine glass and took a sip, before holding it resting on his thigh: rotating the slender glass stem slowly between his fingers. “You want to watch a movie? I downloaded _Holding The Man_ on my laptop, been thinking for a while of seeing it. Y’know: the Timothy Conigrave book?”

“Yeah... Sure.” Zoro hadn’t heard of it.

“Okay.” Sanji started to lean forward to set down his wine glass, then flinched slightly. “Ow... Fuck.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah... Shit.” Sanji was sitting fixedly still, his hands resting on his knees. After a moment, he gave a wry smile. “Just got a little stiff sitting still. It kinda hurts when I first move.”

 

 

Zoro looked at him, frowning. “Want me to fetch your laptop?”

“No, I can do it.” Sanji took a breath, before slowly and carefully standing up. “Mhh... It’s not so bad once I get moving.” He walked deliberately across the room to his desk, returning with the laptop. Sat down again – then let out an irritated noise. “Oh fuck. I meant to grab the anti-inflammatories while I was up.”

This time Zoro stood. “I’ll fetch ‘em, cook. Where are they?”

“Kitchen counter. Next to the fridge. Can you bring me a glass of water, too?”

“Sure.”

 

 

Once he’d returned and the chef had swallowed down a couple more painkillers, they sat together on the couch, watching the film’s titles start to play.

“Oh, before I forget: I called the lease company and told them about that crappy shutter on my stall,” Sanji announced. “They’re gonna send someone to take a look at it on Monday sometime.”

Zoro grunted. “Good.”

“You sure you don’t mind giving me a hand opening up Monday morning?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Okay, then... Thanks.” Sanji’s hand found Zoro’s where it lay on the couch: slid his fingers in between the swordsman’s, and gave a squeeze. “And thanks for helping me out, moss-head. This whole wrecked-back deal is a fucking pain, literally... It really helped having you lend a hand getting me back here. And running those errands for me today.”

Zoro gave a single nod. “No problem.”

Sanji’s hand held his for a few moments longer... Then let go.

 

 

 

* * * * * *

 

 

 

The rest of the weekend passed uneventfully. When Monday came Sanji was pleased to find he could manage the stairs in his apartment building, if he took them slowly.

At _Bite Me_ he watched Zoro manhandle the side-shutter open, frowning at the sounds of grinding metal this produced. “Shit... The damn thing sounds even worse than it did on Friday.”

Shoving the shutter up the last couple of inches, the swordsman stood back with a grunt. “Like I said. It’s fucked.”

“Great.” Sanji unlocked the side door and went into the unit, switching on the interior fluorescent light as he did so. From outside came the rattling of Zoro unfastening and pushing up the stall’s main shutter at its front: then daylight flooded in. Sanji inspected the contents of his refrigerators and storage cupboards, checking that everything he needed for the day was there. “Hey. Where’d you put the paper napkins?”

Zoro leaned over the counter and pointed. “That box on the floor.”

 

 

Sanji bent down to investigate, and let out a slight hiss. “...Crap.”

“Don’t fucking cripple yourself again,” Zoro advised.

“Really not needing that particular hot tip.” Sanji held onto the counter with one hand to steady himself, while he checked the contents of the box on the floor. “...Great.”

“You need anything else lifting, while I’m here?”

Straightening up, Sanji shook his head. “No. I’ll be okay. You better get going, you’re gonna be late for work.”

“I called in and switched my first client. Don’t need to hurry.” Despite this, Zoro checked the time on his phone. “...Much.”

 

 

Sanji rested his folded arms on the counter and gave him a look. “Really. I’m good. You don’t have to hang around here.”

Zoro regarded him levelly. “If they don’t send someone to fix that shutter, don’t fucking try moving it on your own. Call me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sanji made shooing motions with one hand. “I really appreciate your help with the heavy lifting. Now go inflict pain and sweat on people in lycra.”

“Uh huh.” One corner of Zoro’s mouth hiked up briefly. “See you later this week.”

Reaching over the counter, Sanji snagged the front of Zoro’s gym hoodie with one finger and used it to tug the other man towards him a little. “You’re not getting off that easy, moss-head.”

They exchanged a quick kiss, before drawing apart. Then Zoro hitched the strap of his gym bag more securely over his shoulder, and stepped away. “Okay... Hope you get things fixed without any hassle.”

Sanji nodded. “See you in a few days.”

The swordsman also nodded in reply; then turned and walked off down the street. Sanji watched him go: after a few moments he let out a sigh, before cautiously straightening up and turning to look at his workspace.

_Right. Time to get to busy._

 

 

 

 

 

It being Monday, customers didn’t show up in significant numbers until the lunchtime rush. Mindful of his still-tender back, Sanji paced himself: took short breaks and wandered outside the stall, to do a few gentle stretches that Chopper had recommended. Took some more anti-inflammatories too, to keep things manageable.

Even so, by mid-afternoon his back was starting to ache from all the standing up. There wasn’t much Sanji could do about it, but it did remind him to call Chopper to see if he could book a follow-up physio treatment session.

 

 

“Hi, Tony Chopper speaking.” The doctor sounded even younger on the phone than he did in person.

“Hi: it’s Sanji Black.” Sanji propped himself against the counter. “Uh, you came to my place Friday evening and treated me? For a lumbar sprain?”

“Oh, yes - and you fed me an amazing meal! Hi, Sanji. How’re you doing? Is your back okay?”

“Not too bad, thanks. But I’m following doctor’s orders: you advised me to book another treatment session with you, so I’m hoping maybe we could schedule one in later this week sometime?”

“Of course. Let me just check my appointment diary.” There was a brief pause, then Chopper spoke again. “Would you need to come after work?”

“Yeah, if that’s do-able.”

“No problem. Let’s see... Could you make it over to my office for six p.m. Wednesday?”

“Sure.”

“Fine. That’s booked for you.”

“Great. I’ll see you then. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. See you Wednesday!” Chopper responded cheerfully.

 

 

Ending the call, Sanji entered the appointment details into the calendar on his phone so he didn’t forget them. He was still doing this when a voice hailed him over the counter.

“You Sammy Black?” Sanji looked up. A large guy wearing coveralls and carrying a bulky tool bag on one shoulder was peering in.

Sliding his phone away in his pocket, Sanji stepped up to the counter. “That’s _Sanji_ Black.”

“Uh huh.” The guy looked like he cared less. He looked at a slightly crumpled printed form he was carrying in one hand. “Your leasing company said you got a malfunctioning security shutter needs looking at?”

“Yeah.” Sanji indicated the side of the unit with his thumb. “The one that covers the side door.”

 

 

The guy walked round to view the offending shutter. As there were no customers at that precise moment, Sanji stepped out through the side door to watch the repairman. The guy set down his tool bag and regarded the shutter with a slight frown. “So what’s the problem?”

“The shutter’s jammed. I couldn’t close it Friday night – threw my back out trying to force it down.”

“But you opened it okay this morning,” commented the repairman, looking at him.

“No: actually I had to get someone to open it for me. Because my back is fucked.” Sanji said this levelly.

The repairman gave a grunt. “So the shutter does actually move.”

“Yeah: if you put a ton of fucking effort behind it, the damn thing shifts eventually. An inch at a time.” Sanji wasn’t in the mood to debate the minutiae of the problem. “Take it from me: the shutter’s broken. It needs fixing.”

“Mhm.” The repairman shrugged. “Okay... Guess I better take a look.”

“That would be good.” Sanji restrained the sarcasm in his voice.

 

 

The repairman inspected the shutter and its tracks, before pulling on it to test Sanji’s claims. An unpleasant screech and groan of metal being forced against its will testified to the fact that the chef had not, in fact, being bullshitting.

“Huh.” The repairman stepped back. “That’s kinda jammed up.”

_No shit._

Sanji kept his expression deadpan. “I bow to your superior technical knowledge. Can you fix it?”

“Have to see. Might need to fit a new shutter, maybe new tracking as well. Depends if you damaged it, forcing it down the way you said you did.”

“Excuse me?” Sanji found himself bristling. “You’re saying _I_ broke the damn thing?”

The repairman shrugged. “Whatever. You want me to try repairing it, or you want me to replace it?”

“Whatever gets me a working security shutter by the end of today.”

“Okay.” The repairman nodded, before pulling open his tool bag and starting to rummage inside it.

 

 

 

 

 

Lunchtime brought its usual increase in business, and for a couple of hours Sanji focused on serving his customers. Trying to ignore the clanks and hammering sounds emanating from the side of _Bite Me._

At one point, mellowed somewhat by having been able to do a good lunchtime trade, he took advantage of a quiet five minutes to stick his head out the front of the stall and call in the general direction of the noises, “Hey. You want a coffee?”

There was a pause, then the repairman appeared at the front. “You got a Coke?”

“No. Orange juice? Or mineral water?”

The guy looked unimpressed. “Okay. A coffee.”

Sanji produced this, and the repairman chugged it down without waiting for it to cool. Watching him, Sanji tried to make vaguely friendly conversation. “So... How’s it going? You think you can repair it?”

The man scratched his cheek with one grimy finger, considering. “Think I can free it up some, so you can close it up tonight and open it easier tomorrow. But you’re gonna need a new shutter, no doubt about it. I called your lease company: they said to go ahead and replace it. Luckily this unit is a pretty standard retail size, we got one in stock I can get delivered here and fitted tomorrow.”

“Oh. Great.” Sanji hoped this would be as straightforward as it sounded. “Uh... What’s it gonna cost?”

“We’ll bill your lease company direct, for parts and labour.” The man drained his coffee cup and dumped it on the counter. “Guess they’ll be in touch with you about that.”

“Right.” Crossing his fingers mentally, Sanji hoped they weren’t going to sting him too bad for it. After all, it was their premises: he hadn’t done anything to break the damn thing. “So... You think you’re gonna be working on it much longer today?”

The repairman shook his head. “I’m about done.”

 

 

 _About done,_ as it turned out, wasn’t an exact prediction: the banging and clanking continued for almost another hour. It was late afternoon before the repairman summoned Sanji outside to try pulling the shutter down. The chef took hold of it with extreme wariness, mindful of his injured back: but happily what the guy lacked in social skills he evidently made up for in mechanical aptitude. The shutter still sounded like it was about to fall off, but it now moved a lot more freely.

Once Sanji had cautiously hoisted the shutter up again, the repairman picked up his tool bag. “S’just a temporary fix. But it’ll hold till we fit the new one.”

“Thanks.” Sanji nodded. “What time do you plan on turning up tomorrow?”

“They won’t be able to deliver the new security shutter before ten. Sometime after then.” The guy produced the crumpled form he’d had when he’d arrived, and held it out with a pen. “Need you to sign to say we did the initial call-out and repair. You’ll need to sign again after the job’s finished tomorrow.”

“Sure.” Sanji did the necessary. “See you tomorrow morning.”

The man simply nodded, before packing up his tool bag and heading off.

 

 

Returning inside the stall, Sanji began prepping ingredients for tomorrow. Mentally running through his ideas for this week’s menu, based on how things had sold that day. Thinking ahead to the following week; and to a party catering job he’d given costings for, that the customer had replied to by email over the weekend.

 _Bite Me_ had only been open a little over a month, but business was slowly growing. The figures in Sanji’s business plan had been deliberately inflated – on Nami’s advice – to impress the bank he’d gone to for the loan: so Sanji hoped the fact that his first month’s books didn’t exactly match up to his cashflow predictions wasn’t a big cause for concern.

He was going to push his sales through marketing, distributing more flyers around the local neighbourhood businesses. Also he would update his food blog and promote that through various social networking and food-related websites (Nami’s idea, again). And if this party he was catering for produced a satisfied customer – and why the hell wouldn’t it – then Sanji intended to capitalise on that as well, including a stack of business cards to be given to party guests. Plus he’d already had a couple more inquiries about event catering, from customers who’d bought their lunch at the stall.

 

 

Throwing his back out at the weekend was crappy timing, but at least with Chopper’s help he was more or less mobile. And with the anti-inflammatories he could manage to keep on working as normal. Which was good, because things were likely to get even busier when he started doing party catering at weekends too.

_Bring it on._

Sanji smiled, as he cracked eggs into crêpe batter and whisked it until it was silky smooth.

_Thinking about menus... Wonder what food I should bring to Luffy’s birthday party?_

Zoro had mentioned a barbecue. Sanji considered various options. He assumed that other people would bring the usual burgers and hot dogs... Maybe lamb kebabs, with peppers and vegetables? He had a kickass recipe for sweet and spicy chilli barbecue chicken, too: that would probably go down well with Luffy.

_Yeah, no worries there._

Sanji smiled wryly: having seen Luffy chow down on several occasions, there was no doubt that the younger man would eat anything put in front of him. Especially if it fitted broadly into the category of carnivorous fare.

 _Okay then. Lamb kebabs, and chilli chicken._ Sanji made a mental note to pick the ingredients up when he dropped in at the market to get his regular supplies for _Bite Me,_ later that week.

 

 

It would be a welcome break to go to the party, have a chance to kick back for a few hours with friends. The previous weekend had been something of a crapfest, given that Sanji had been incapacitated with his injured back. And while he’d really appreciated having Zoro’s help and his company, the swordsman had been even more monosyllabic than usual. And noticeably hands-off in the physical sense.

Not surprising, given Sanji’s fucked-up state... But it was the first time the two of them had spent a couple of nights together without that side of things happening.

_We’ll make up for it next weekend._

Sanji mentally crossed his fingers, hoping that his follow-up treatment with Chopper would help ensure this would be the case. Before moving on to the next task on his food prep list.

 

 

 

 

Zoro’s working day at Flex gym followed its usual Monday pattern, of fewer people coming in than on other week days... Which meant less classes to teach. After finishing his scheduled personal trainer sessions with regular clients and leading a circuits class in the afternoon, Zoro spent the rest of the day doing his least favourite job: cleaning and tidying the locker rooms and showers. Everyone who worked at the gym was expected to take a turn at this so he wasn’t going to shirk it, but housekeeping definitely fell into the realm of shitwork. Especially when some of the gym users appeared to be total assholes who had evidently never been taught to clean up their own mess.

The only saving grace of this particular task was that it required virtually no mental effort, which he usually appreciated. On this particular day however, some distraction would have been welcome.

 

 

Even purgatory came to an end, though: when five-thirty rolled around, Zoro’s working day was officially over. He changed out of his gym uniform and into keikogi and hakama, before taking his shinai from his locker and heading into an empty practice space.

After warming up thoroughly, Zoro began suburi: repetitions of swinging his shinai, striking at empty air. Keeping his gaze focused on the space before him, as if there was an opponent there. Using the mirrored wall of the practice space to make sure he was maintaining correct posture and straight strokes.

 

 

Suburi was something he’d been doing as long as he’d been a kendōka. Koshiro had been a strong advocate of the discipline of doing it regularly, and like most things his former sensei recommended, Zoro had found it worth following.

He repeated different types of strike, doing reps in groups of a hundred. Two-handed, then using his left hand alone. Stepping forward, then stepping back. Bringing his shinai straight down, then diagonally. Concentrating on maintaining perfect control of each movement, while keeping his tenouchi light and strong. Aiming for an imaginary opponent’s men, kote and dō. Not rushing: making each movement deliberate and accurate, cleanly executed.

 

 

As it usually did, suburi took Zoro to a place where he was focused only on what he was doing. He embraced this, sharpening his concentration until everything else fell away. Feeling only the heft of the bamboo shinai in his hands, the smooth floor under his bare feet. The growing burn of the muscles in his arms and shoulders, an almost pleasantly familiar ache that signalled he was getting a good workout. The sound of his shinai swishing through the air on each stroke; the steady rhythm of his breath.

He reached two thousand, cycling through the different suburi: and finally came to a standstill, lowering his shinai and bringing it back to his left hip. His breathing steadied, slowing back to normal; he felt sweat cooling on his skin.

 

 

After a few moments Zoro found his gaze switching away from the mirror, towards the clock on the wall: saw it was a little after seven o’clock. There was a class scheduled for the practice room at quarter past, so he ought to clear out before gym members started showing up.

The staff locker room and showers were empty when Zoro went in there, which was good; he didn’t feel much like making conversation. He took off his keikogi and hakama and folded them, stowing them in his bag; slid his shinai into its case. Took a shower, standing for long minutes with the water playing on his back and shoulders, sluicing any aches away. Got dressed and picked up his gear and headed out.

 

 

Out on the street he didn’t have to wait long for a bus that would take him home. Walking the length of the bus aisle he dropped into a seat at the back, slinging his gym bag on the seat beside him. Not that anyone was likely to ask if they could sit there: there were plenty of free seats elsewhere. But Zoro felt a strong disinclination to sharing his space with anyone right now.

He folded his arms across his chest and turned his head to gaze out of the bus window. Not actually seeing what he was looking at: the blur of street and traffic so much visual white noise. Not enough of a distraction to hold his mind from where it was inexorably returning to, now his kendo practice was over. To the thoughts that had dogged him since the weekend.

 

 

_What the fuck am I gonna do about this?_

 

 

It was a mess: and Zoro knew what he should have done. Been truthful to Sanji in the first place, when the chef had asked him about the scar. Because on top of the revelations about his totally fucked-up past, he was also going to have to tell the chef that he’d lied to him. Which wasn’t likely to improve things.

 _ Shit _ _._

Zoro found himself scowling at the bus window, a heavy anger beginning to grow in his chest.

_Never fucking fails. Things start to get good, and I screw it up._

He wondered darkly if there was just something wrong in him that couldn’t be fixed. Something that unfailingly attracted bad things: because the universe seemed to reliably hurl shit at him. Starting with winding up on the streets when his fucking uncle ditched him; then continuing with being sucked into Kazuo and Takenaka’s orbit, and getting hooked on meth. Nearly getting cut in half, by that sonofabitch Mihawk.

Finding an actual real friend, in Kuina. Only to lose her.

 

 

Zoro’s jaw ached: he realised he had been clenching it hard.

_What if I lose him?_

 

 

He had to tell Sanji the truth. Because if he didn’t, sooner or later they’d be fucked anyway. A relationship was built on trust. And trust was strong until it got broken: then it was nearly impossible to fix.

Zoro wanted to believe that Sanji wouldn’t react badly. To Zoro having lied to him; and to the actual truth. But there were no guarantees. And flashes of their conversation from the weekend kept replaying in Zoro’s mind. One thing the chef had stated, in particular.

_\- I am not a shitty drug addict, nor would I ever want to be._

 

 

He remembered exactly the tone with which Sanji had spoken this. Furious contempt.

The words kept echoing in Zoro’s head. Because even if he’d told Sanji when they’d first met a little about that part of his past, he hadn’t told him everything.

_\- I didn’t just drink. I took stuff. Shit I hadn’t gone near since my fucked-up days. Got back into some bad old habits for a while._

Bad old habits was a major understatement. A softening of a hard truth, which was that Zoro had been an addict. And it hadn’t just been the meth he’d been hooked on.

 

 

Zoro had to tell Sanji the truth; but how much of the truth?

 

 

_Hey, the other night when I said I got that scar in a bar fight? I was bullshitting. I got it fighting illegally for cash. Which came in handy ‘cos I was snorting a fuckload of meth every week. Also, when I was fighting I used to get a real buzz from beating the shit out of people. You cool with that?_

That was the essential truth of it, however he dressed it up. And Zoro wasn’t a fan of dressing things up. He tended to say things straightforwardly, or not at all. So that left him only two choices: say nothing, and let his lie stand. Or tell Sanji the truth, as clearly as possible.

So really, it wasn’t a choice.

 

 

Another thing that Zoro had said to Sanji that night on New Year’s Eve, came back to him now.

_\- I’ve certainly made enough fucking mistakes to last me a lifetime._

And yet here he was, having made yet another mistake. Lying to the chef, maybe damaging the thing that had started to grow between them so that it couldn’t be fixed. And Zoro was going to follow that with what was going to be a further unpleasant revelation: of the fact that he was messed up in ways that only an idiot would want to get closer to.

 

 

_Maybe he’ll deal._

It was an unlikely hope, but Zoro felt it flicker somewhere deep down inside him. He knew what he had to do: so he’d do it. Talk to Sanji, sometime later this week. Tell him the truth.

_And if it doesn’t work out..._

Zoro cut that thought dead. Not because he didn’t think the worst might happen. Because he wasn’t sure what he’d do, if it did.

 

 

 

 

 

When he got back to his apartment, the quiet there signalled that Luffy wasn’t home. Zoro dumped his stuff in his room, then made for the kitchen. There wasn’t much food in the fridge but that was no big deal because he wasn’t especially hungry anyway.

He fixed himself a sandwich and took it to the main room with a beer, sitting on the couch. Checked his phone for messages: saw that one had landed from Sanji, a little while ago. Frowning slightly, Zoro opened it.

 _‘Repair guy patched up shutter temporarily, gonna replace it 2moro._ \  ^ O ^ /   _How was yr day?’_

Zoro paused for a moment; then typed in a reply. _‘OK kinda slow.’_ After thinking for a moment, he added, _‘Hows your back?’_

 

 

Sanji evidently had his phone to hand. Another text appeared almost instantly. _‘Not 2 bad. I booked a follow-up session with Chopper Weds eve.’_

Zoro keyed in another reply. _‘Good.’_ His thumb hovered over _Send,_   hesitating; then he added a question. _‘OK if I come over to yours Fri night?’_

_‘Yeah I’ll make dinner. What time u finish work?’_

_‘Should be at yours 7.30.’_

_‘Cool c u then. Have gd wk mosshead.’_

_‘Yeah you too curlybrow.’_

There was a short pause, then one last text landed. _‘ :-P ‘_

 

 

Zoro was still frowning at his phone screen when the slamming of the apartment door signalled that his flatmate had just arrived home.

“Hey, Zoro!” Luffy’s customary loud shout of greeting reached the swordsman. Half a second later it was followed by Luffy himself precipitating himself into the room. “Ha, you’re here.” Luffy dumped his backpack onto the floor and swung himself onto the couch next to Zoro, bringing up his legs to sit crosslegged. “Didn’t see you all weekend. What’s the news?”

“Nothing much.” Zoro took in Luffy’s appearance: the younger man was speckled with streaks of paint, in a dozen bright colours. “You been hanging with Usopp again?”

“Yep.” Luffy folded both arms behind his head and sprawled comfortably against the back of the couch. “We went to this place down by the river, Arkaos... ‘Member, the place me and Ace hung out at on New Year’s?”

Zoro cast his memory back. “Where you guys went to that illegal party?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Big old dock warehouse, it’s been squatted now... There’s a bunch of guys doing graffiti pieces all over it. They had a big music night there Saturday, kickass sound system.” He smiled widely. “Next time we go you oughta come with. It’s a cool hangout.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Zoro felt too preoccupied to ride the wave of Luffy’s latest tsunami of enthusiasm.

 

 

Luffy settled himself more comfortably into the couch and let out a yawn. “I’m beat, though. Too much going on there to sleep.” He scratched his chest, yawning again. “Wuhhh... What’d you do over the weekend?”

“Not a lot. Sanji fucked up his back, so I helped him out by picking up some stuff for _Bite Me_.”

“Sanji hurt his back?” Luffy’s eyes widened. “No way! How’d that happen?”

“He was trying to lift something Friday evening at the stall, sprained it. It’s no big deal, he’ll be okay.”

“Does that mean he can’t cook?”

“He went back to work today: so, no.” Zoro shrugged. “He got it treated: we called this physio guy, he came round the same evening and fixed Sanji up.”

“Oh. That’s good.” Luffy’s expression of concern switched to relief. “It’d suck if he missed my party.”

“Yeah.” Zoro said this flatly.

 

 

The younger man regarded Zoro for a moment. Then he asked, “You worried about him?”

Zoro frowned. “I just told you, he’ll be okay.”

“Yeah...” Luffy said this slowly, tilting his head a little to one side, eyes still gazing at his friend.

Luffy’s weird ability to mind-read at the most inconvenient times was never something Zoro found easy to deal with. Especially not now.

He stood up, picking up his empty plate from the table. “I’m gonna get another beer.” And left Luffy to surmise what he could from his exit from the conversation.

 

 

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

The following day the repairman reappeared at _Bite Me_ and fitted a new side shutter as promised, with more banging and clashing than Sanji felt such a process could legitimately involve. Once again he autographed the paperwork, and received the grunted response that the lease company would be getting the invoice for the repair in due course. Sanji fervently hoped that meant a few weeks down the line, given the state of his cashflow in these early weeks of his business.

 

 

When Wednesday evening came, he shut up the stall and made his way to the address Chopper had texted him, to undergo his second treatment by the young doctor. Chopper’s office turned out to be a ground floor office in an old building with a string of buzzers sporting names of various businesses. Whatever income Chopper was getting from his work giving physio treatments to the mangled and needy, it evidently wasn’t big bucks.

 

 

When Sanji pressed the entry buzzer, it was the voice of Chopper himself that greeted him. “Hi, Tony Chopper: sports injuries and acupuncture?”

“Hi, it’s Sanji Black? We made a six o’clock appointment.”

“Oh, Sanji, yes! Come in.”

The door lock clicked as it released, and Sanji pushed the door open and walked inside. A corridor with a couple of frosted glass office doors along it stretched in front of him. One door popped open, and Chopper stuck his head out with a cheerfully welcoming smile. “Hi! I’m just down here.”

 

 

Sanji headed to the doorway and inside, and the young doctor shut it behind him before gesturing forwards. “Through there, the next room is my treatment room.”

Beyond the entrance – which was little more than an alcove with a chair, presumably for clients waiting for treatments – lay another room with a treatment couch and a small desk and two chairs. The room’s walls were white and unadorned except for a chart showing acupuncture meridians; the window was covered with a bamboo blind, and the space was softly lit by an overhead lamp.

“Please take a seat.” Chopper gestured at the chairs, sitting himself and pulling a folder on his desk towards him and flipping it open. His eyes lit on Sanji and he gave a small smile. “How has your back been?”

 

 

Sanji sat carefully, because after a day’s work he did feel somewhat stiff. “Not too bad... Evenings are worse, after I’ve been on my feet all day.”

Chopper nodded. “Have you been doing the exercises I suggested?”

“Yeah. I’ve been setting a reminder on my phone to take a break every couple of hours, run through those stretches.” Sanji nodded.

“And are they helping?”

“Uh huh.”

“So are you still experiencing significant pain?”

“Not exactly. More just feeling achy and stiff, like I can’t move properly. Sometimes it kinda twinges. I’m taking those anti-inflammatories you recommended.”

“Good.” Chopper made a note on the paperwork in front of him. “Can you stand up and take off your shirt, then show me where you’re feeling the sporadic pain?”

Sanji did so: afterwards Chopper made a few more notes, before standing up. “Okay, Sanji. I’ll give you another acupuncture treatment, then we’ll finish up with a massage like before.”

 

 

As with his previous experience on Friday evening, Sanji found the insertion and manipulation of the needles painless enough. Chopper worked as intently and quietly as he had done before, giving the chef instructions for how to move as the treatment progressed.

Once the acupuncture had finished, Sanji lay face-down on the couch and submitted to the follow-up massage. Chopper’s hands moved smoothly and surely across the tender muscles of the chef’s back; applying more pressure when necessary, easing off instantly whenever Sanji felt himself tense if a spot felt particularly tender. He found himself relaxing completely under the other man’s touch, almost melting into the couch under the therapeutic massage.

“Is the pressure I’m using okay?” queried Chopper, after a while.

“Absolutely fine,” Sanji responded, having to swallow first to rescue his mouth from slack almost-drooling. _Fuck,_ he had almost gone to sleep. “You’ve got magic hands, Chopper.”

 

 

A half-embarrassed laugh came from the young doctor. “Thank you... But it’s just basic manipulation and massage. No magic involved.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Sanji felt a knot of tension low on his spine dissolve under Chopper’s fingers. “Wish I could stop by here every day after work... This was almost worth getting my back fucked up in the first place.”

Chopper laughed again. “Careful what you wish for.”

“Right. I take that back.” Sanji smiled into the couch. “But you seriously are a miracle worker. I can’t believe how much easier my back feels already... Last time I did this I was horizontal for a week. It would’ve been a nightmare going through that again: especially with having to work.”

“You still should be careful, though,” Chopper admonished him. “Just because this treatment is helping, doesn’t mean you should overdo things. Keep doing those exercises I showed you, and make sure you don’t do any heavy lifting for a month.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll follow doctor’s orders.” Sanji let out a breath as Chopper’s hands worked at a particularly tight spot in his muscles. “Nghh.”

 

 

“Too much?” Chopper’s voice sounded instantly apologetic.

“No... S’okay.” Sanji breathed out more slowly, and felt the tenseness melt away.

“Just tell me if it hurts.” The doctor’s hands resumed their careful massage. “Back to what we were saying... I suppose you can’t easily take sick leave, running your own business.”

“Nope. One of the few drawbacks.”

“Can you rest up at weekends?”

“Yeah, once I’ve done the paperwork. And next weekend shouldn’t be too busy.”

“Doing anything fun?”

“Going to a friend’s birthday party... Yeah, should be a good night. Just a few people, round at his place: food and music, chilling out.”

“Sounds nice.” There was almost something wistful in the young doctor’s tone.

 

 

Sanji nodded. “Yeah. How about you? You got plans for the weekend?”

“Uh, just the usual. Catching up on reading medical journals, updating client records.” Chopper sounded somewhat self-conscious. “I might go see a movie.”

“You live on your own, or you got room mates?”

“I’ve got a studio apartment. Which is okay: I don’t mind being on my own.” The young doctor’s voice almost sounded slightly defensive. As though he felt he was confessing to some inadequacy.

“Having your own space is cool. I enjoy renting my place, after living with my old man for so long. Did you share an apartment with other med students when you were at college?”

“No. I lived on campus. I mean, yes: I shared a kitchen, but I had my own room.” Chopper’s voice dropped almost to a mumble. “I had to. ‘Cos of being younger than anyone else there.”

Sanji remembered then: that Chopper had started med school when he was fourteen. And college when he was even younger. “Was that hard? All your classmates being older?”

“Not really. I could keep up with all the coursework.”

That really hadn’t been what Sanji meant. “I guess it was a little difficult, though. Going to college is a big deal for anyone: being away from home, making friends. It must’ve been even harder for you.”

“It wasn’t so bad.” Chopper sounded like he was trying to make light of it. “It’s not like I wanted to hang out partying all night, anyway. Meant I had plenty of time for studying.”

 

 

Sanji tried and failed to imagine what his college life would have felt like without the numerous opportunities he’d had – and taken full advantage of – to go out partying and making friends. Not to mention, dating. He was getting a picture of Chopper in his med student life: fourteen years old, living with nothing but his medical text books for company, maybe listening through the walls of his room to the sounds of his fellow students living it up. And feeling himself totally excluded.

Having undergone his own fair share of feeling on the edge of things himself though, Sanji understood Chopper’s evident desire not to dwell in that particular memory lane. So he responded to the young doctor’s comment with a positive one of his own. “Yeah. And all your hard work paid off: now you’re qualified, and you’re a great doctor. Must feel good.”

“Mm-hm.” Chopper’s hands gave Sanji’s back one last gentle press, before lifting away. “Okay, that should settle things down. You can sit up slowly when you’re ready.”

 

 

Once he was sat up, Sanji gave his shoulders an experimental flex: then stood and reached for his jeans from the nearby chair, before pulling them on. Picking up his shirt next, he addressed Chopper. “That feels great. Thanks again, Chopper.”

“You’re welcome.” Chopper spoke slightly absently but sincerely, writing something in Sanji’s treatment notes.

Watching him, Sanji felt an idea emerge in his mind.

_Wonder if Luffy would mind an extra person coming to his party?_

 

 

 

* * * * * *

 

 

 

On Friday Zoro’s last gym class ended at six, which left him plenty of time to shower and change into street clothes before catching the bus to Sanji’s place.

The whole way over there he ran possible conversations in his head, trying to figure how this thing might play out. Possible openers he could use.

_We need to talk._

That one he ditched without hesitation: it had terminal bad news written all over it.

_There’s something I need to tell you._

Ditto.

 

 

By the time the bus reached the street near Sanji’s apartment, Zoro was wearing a frown and was almost abstracted enough to miss his stop. He looked up just in time and jumped to his feet, swaying down the aisle as the bus took a corner. “Hey, this is my stop.”

The driver favoured him with an extremely unimpressed look at the lack of advance notice, but grudgingly jammed on the brakes and pulled to the kerb.

 

 

When Zoro held his thumb against the entry buzzer, Sanji’s voice met him after only a second’s pause. _“Zoro?”_

“Yeah, it’s me.”

_“Come on up.”_

The door lock clicked open and Zoro pushed his way inside. When he got to Sanji’s apartment the door was slightly ajar: Zoro knocked on it anyway.

“Yeah, it’s open!” came the chef’s yell from within.

Zoro stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He took off his boots before walking through to the main room, which presented a noticeable lack of chef. Zoro looked around, frowning slightly, before raising his voice. “You here, shit cook?”

“...Kitchen.” Sanji’s voice reached him, similarly raised.

 

 

When Zoro entered the small kitchen, the chef was bent over an open oven, peering at something in there with an interrogative expression. His investigation was apparently successful: he smiled slightly and shut the door with a gentle _clunk_ , before straightening up and turning around. “Just checking on the salmon. Don’t want to overcook it.” His gaze ran over the swordsman, one corner of his mouth hiking up a little. “Good to see you.”

Zoro nodded: the chef tossed an oven glove onto the nearby counter, before giving Zoro a wry look. “That all the hello I get?”

For an answer, Zoro stepped in to the chef, kissing him on the mouth. When he moved back Sanji was regarding him with a smile: Zoro managed to smile briefly in return, leaning against the counter beside them. “How’s your week been, cook?”

“Not bad, considering.” The chef shrugged.

“Your back been okay?”

 

 

By way of a demonstration, Sanji twisted slightly one way then the other, then bent slowly forward in a flourishing bow; finishing by straightening up again and spreading his arms with palms turned upwards. “Ta-daa! By the powers of Dr Chopper, I’m fully operational again. Pretty much.”

“Yeah?”

“I shit you not. Between Chopper’s juju and the anti-inflammatories, it hardly hurts at all any more... Most of the time, anyway. I’m still kinda stiff, but Chopper said that’ll ease up as the injury heals.”

“Result.”

“For sure.” Sanji let out a sigh. “And a relief. I really can’t afford to be out of action right now.”

 

 

Zoro nodded. “You got any more treatments booked in with Chopper?”

“No, we agreed to see how things go: if my back starts acting up again, I can call him.” Sanji’s face got a pleased look. “But we’ll be seeing him again tomorrow night.”

Zoro didn’t follow this. “Huh?”

“He’s coming to Luffy’s party.” Sanji smiled. “I called Luffy this morning, asked him if it would be okay to invite Chopper along; and he said the more the merrier. When I called Chopper he was kind of reluctant at first, but I talked him into it.” The chef reached to the counter where a glass of wine stood and picked it up, before gesturing at the fridge. “You want a beer? There’s a couple of yours left in there from the weekend.”

 

 

The mention of last weekend reminded Zoro of the main reason he was there. Which he’d managed to forget about for nearly two minutes. “Yeah. Great.” He got out a bottle and uncapped it, before taking a swallow.

Sanji raised an eyebrow. “There are glasses in the cupboard.”

Taking another mouthful from the bottle, Zoro shrugged. Sanji gave a half-shake of his head, before heading for the doorway. “Let’s go sit down. Dinner’ll be another ten minutes.”

 

 

Following the chef back into the main room, Zoro watched him sit on the couch. Elected to sit there too, at the opposite end to the chef: keeping some distance between them. Feeling the habitual physical pull he got just from being close to the other man, that desire to get closer still... But warring with that, a growing tension that made him keep his distance.

The tightness in the pit of his stomach made him want to do what he’d came for, straight away: get into the difficult stuff, face whatever was coming. But he couldn’t just launch into it. So he fastened on Sanji’s previous statement, as a way of making conversation. “How come you decided to invite Chopper along to Luffy’s party? We only just met the guy.”

Sanji looked sideways at him. “You didn’t like him?”

Zoro shrugged. “Chopper’s okay. But he didn’t strike me as being much of a party animal.”

 

 

Taking a sip of wine, the chef seemed to be considering something. Then he said, “I could be reading too much into it... But we got talking during my treatment, I think maybe he’s a little lonely. He lives on his own, doesn’t sound like he’s got too many friends. I got the impression that’s the way it’s been since he was at college. He’s kind of shy, I guess.”

“And you figure dropping him into one of Luffy’s parties will fix that?” Zoro snorted.

Sanji got a wry smile on his face at that. “Kill or cure.”

“Might be kinda useful having a doctor there. If Ace lets Luffy have a go fire juggling and he sets himself on fire,” Zoro commented drily.

 

 

Sanji grimaced. “Does Luffy plan on helping with the barbecue, too?”

“Hah, shit cook - like you’d let anyone near while you’re cooking.”

“Damn straight.” The chef got a determined look on his face. “If that hyper-monkey starts bouncing off me while I’m tending grill, he’s gonna wind up with my barbecue tongs clamped somewhere sensitive. Warn him accordingly.”

“You want to declare DEFCON 1, tell him that yourself. Good luck.”

“He’s your friend.”

“Yeah. Which in no way implies I take any responsibility for whatever fuckery he gets up to. You want Luffy to stay out of your cooking zone, be ready to defend it with sharp-edged implements.”

“No problem.” A glint came into Sanji’s eyes; then he let out a snort of laughter. “Maybe Chopper _will_ wind up coming in handy.”

 

 

Zoro looked at him. And a thought came into his head, that he spoke aloud. “It’s cool you invited him along. I’ll bet he appreciates it.”

The chef met his gaze. “Hm? Well, why not... He seems like a nice guy. I just thought maybe he could use an excuse to get out and meet a few people. Maybe make some friends. Like I said, he seems kind of lonely.” His eyes shifted, turning slightly away. “Being lonely sucks.”

“Sounded like he came from a big family, though. He talked about them, when he was here.”

“Yeah, but...” Sanji frowned slightly: leaned forward and picked up his glass of wine; took a sip. “He started med school when he was fourteen: everyone there must have been at least seven or eight years older than him. That’s got to have been tough, he was just a kid. Fuck, just studying medicine is a big enough challenge; imagine what it must have been like having no-one his own age to hang out with.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Zoro had to admit, it didn’t sound like a fun scenario.

“Plus I’ll bet he got shit from all the dicks for being a total brainiac,” Sanji added, with the grim certainty of someone who had been on the receiving end himself of less-than-charitable peer treatment. He scowled into his wine glass, as if remembering more than he wanted to: then gave a slight shake of his head, as if dispelling memories. “Shit. Whoever came up with the notion that your school days are the best time of your life, ought to be lobotomised.”

 

 

Zoro couldn’t exactly argue with that; largely because his school days had been mostly tedious and prematurely cut short. Which train of thought led straight to where the two of them needed to go. Whether he wanted them to or not.

Sanji took another sip of wine, then set down his glass. Before dispelling his scowl and looking back to the swordsman. “What the fuck. I just figured maybe Chopper might like to hang out with us for an evening. If he winds up thinking we’re a bunch of weirdos, then I guess I’ll just have to find someone else to fix me up if I ever throw my back out again.”

“He’s already met _you,_ shit cook. How much weirder you think it’s gonna get?”

“Right back at you, craphead.” Sanji gave him the finger, smirking sardonically. “You dress up and swordfight for a hobby, and your roomie makes Minions look like Zen Buddhists.”

 

 

This kind of exchange could easily flicker back and forth like low-level lightning between them for a while. But Zoro resisted the urge to go with it. Instead of answering straight away, he let a beat of silence last between them. Which was unusual enough that it got the chef to drop the grin.

All the lame opening gambits he’d thought of massed in Zoro’s head, offering him precisely nothing helpful. He picked up his beer and gulped a mouthful: rested the bottle on his thigh, fingers clenching around its neck. Tightly.

When he spoke, he tried to keep his voice even. “...I remember you telling me, you had a shit time of it at school.”

 

 

Sanji’s eyes widened, just a little. He said slowly, “What I told you was, I used to get into a lot of fights at school.” His gaze rested on the swordsman. “Because the other little fuckers kept giving me shit. But that stopped once I learned how to kick ass.”

“You ever run into any of those kids again? I mean: now you’re adults?”

The chef got a weird expression on his face. “I wouldn’t give two shits if I did. Why are you asking?”

“Just... stuff from the past.” Zoro felt himself crossing into the danger zone. Moving towards something he wasn’t going to be able to pull back from. “Even if it’s in the past. It still matters.”

“Well, yeah. Inasmuch as we’re the product of our formative experiences, plus a shitload of cultural and social input.” Sanji said this slightly snippily, as if he was wary of wherever this was going. “Your point being?”

 

 

With a feeling like he was skating out over creaking ice, Zoro pushed himself away from the safety of shore. “Everyone’s got bad shit in their past. Me included.”

Sanji nodded slowly, his eyes resting on the swordsman. “Yeah. I know. You told me.”

“I didn’t tell you all of it.”

“I didn’t expect you to talk about - ”

“Last weekend.” Zoro cut in, knowing that if he didn’t do this now, it was only going to get harder. “You asked me how I got the scar on my chest.”

“Huh?” Sanji regarded him. “Yeah... What of it?”

“What I told you... that I got it in a bar fight.” Zoro took a slow, deliberate breath. Then threw caution to the winds. “That’s not the truth.”

Sanji’s brows drew together slightly. He said nothing, his gaze staying on the swordsman.

“I lied to you, last weekend.” Zoro met that steady blue gaze. “But I want to be straight with you.”

 

 

After a beat of silence, Sanji spoke in a level tone. “Right.”

“For the record: I haven’t lied about anything else.” Zoro met his gaze.

“So why’d you lie about this?”

“This isn’t - ” Zoro broke off. Made himself spell it out. “Last weekend I told you what I did, because I thought if you heard the truth about how totally fucked up my life used to be... then maybe you’d want to walk away. From this.”

Sanji’s eyes narrowed, just a little, but his expression stayed calm. “Try me.”

Zoro felt Pandora’s box opening. “This isn’t a story you’re gonna like.”

Sanji gave a small shrug. “I don’t like being lied to, either.” His hand went to his pocket: came out holding his pack of cigarettes. Taking one and placing it between his lips he lit up, before returning his gaze to the swordsman. “Talk. I’ll be right here listening.”

 

 

Zoro tightened his hand on the cold hard glass of the beer bottle. “When we first met... you remember I told you, I used to take drugs?”

The chef gave a slow nod. Still looking at the swordsman. “You mentioned that.”

“The truth is, I didn’t just take shit for kicks. I was a regular user.” Zoro took a deep breath, then plunged on. “I was hooked on meth, for nearly a year. And I took other things too: benzos, for coming down.”

Sanji’s face was still. “How old were you?”

“Sixteen when I started. Seventeen when I quit. But while I was using... I was doing meth every week.”

“But you quit.” Sanji’s eyes held him.

“Yeah, I quit. Right up to the point a few years later when my life went to shit again, when Kuina died... And then I picked right back up where I left off.” Zoro wasn’t going to evade any of the truth. “Because when you’re an addict, that’s always an option. When the shit goes down, old bad habits come knocking.”

 

 

Sanji said nothing for a moment; his expression was hard to read. “Is that what you think you are?” His brows pulled together. “An addict?”

“I know it’s what I am.”

The frown on the chef’s face deepened. “You don’t use drugs now.” Sanji’s tone didn’t make it a question, but it still hung in the air like one.

“No.”

“You ever want to?”

That was a harder thing to answer. Zoro made sure he said what was true. “Not for a couple of years.”

After a moment, Sanji gave a single nod. “Okay.”

“And before you ask: I don’t have a problem with alcohol.”

 

 

One of the chef’s eyebrows lifted slightly: his mouth gave a twitch almost as if he were suppressing a smile. “Yeah, somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

“I like a few drinks, shit cook. But I don’t need to drink. That’s the difference. I can stop after a couple of beers if I want to. You ever met a real drunk, you’d know what I’m talking about.”

“I’ve worked with a few.” Sanji said this meditatively, that wry smile quirking at the corner of his mouth again. “One head chef used to be a fucking nightmare before he’d had his first bottle of _Châteauneuf-du-Pape_ to take the edge off. Which usually happened before noon.”

“I’ll bet working for him was all kinds of fun.”

“It definitely made for an interesting kitchen atmosphere. Where are you going with this?” Sanji’s eyes suddenly focused hard on Zoro, his face growing sober. “Because I’m kind of confused by what this has to do with the reason you have a scar that looks like someone tried to bisect you. A scar which, apparently, you didn’t get in a bar fight. As previously related.”

 

 

Zoro met the other man’s gaze. “When I was taking meth, I was doing other dumb stuff as well. To earn some cash.”

“What - you were selling drugs?”

“No.” Zoro gave a single hard shake of his head. “I was taking part in illegal fights. For money.”

Sanji coughed, letting out a small explosive gasp of smoke; then blinked at him. “You did what?”

“I went to an underground club, and fought other guys; one-on-one. While people watched and made bets on the outcome.” Zoro shrugged. “Kinda like _Fight Club_ , but with less meaningful dialogue and more guys slugging the shit out of each other.”

 

 

The expression of incredulity now morphing its way over Sanji’s features didn’t bode well. “You’re telling me... _that’s_ how you got that scar across your chest? Grappling with someone at one of these fights?” The chef sounded dubious. “Who the fuck were you fighting, Wolverine?”

Zoro felt his hand clench tight on the neck of his beer bottle. “You think I’m bullshitting you?”

“No, I’m just trying to fit my head around what you’re telling me. Give me a moment.” Sanji took a breath. “You’re telling me you fought at some illegal club, and got money for doing that?”

“Yeah. If I won my fight, I got paid a few hundred. Less if I got wiped out.”

“How the fuck did you wind up fighting there in the first place?”

“After my uncle walked out on me, I went looking for him. I never found him... But I ran into a guy who worked for someone my uncle owed money to. That guy’s boss owned the club.”

 

 

Sanji’s eyes widened. “You started to fighting to pay off your fucking uncle’s _debt?”_

“No.” Zoro shook his head. “But the guy I ran into told me I could make decent money. Which I needed, unless I wanted spend the rest of my life holed up in a shitty squat in a neighbourhood even the roaches didn’t want to live in.”

“So you started fighting. For cash.” The chef sounded like he was trying to piece everything together. “Then you got that scar how, exactly?”

“A ways down the line, I quit the fights. But the guy who owned the club tracked me down, convinced me to fight again.”

“How’d he do that?”

“Made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” Zoro gave the chef a smile that was more of a grimace. “Either come fight for him again, for a shitload of money... Or he’d fuck with me in ways I couldn’t fix. So I figured I’d go with the shitload-of-money scenario.”

“So you went back to fighting in his club?”

“One time deal.” Zoro shook his head. “I went up against another guy, but not hand-to-hand. With swords.”

“You fought a guy with a _sword?”_  Sanji sounded like his ability to fit his head around this had just reached its limit.

“I used a katana. I had one for doing iaido - ” Zoro broke off, realising that detail was completely off-topic. “Yeah. I fought a guy with a sword.”

“What happened?”

Zoro released a harsh, self-derisive breath. “Short version? He won.”

 

 

There were several seconds of silence. At last Sanji’s hand lifted his cigarette to his mouth: he drew on it hard, burning it down almost to his fingers. Then he took the cigarette away and exhaled, before leaning forward to crush it out in the ashtray. Stayed leaning forward, arms resting on his knees; eyes gazing apparently at the crushed cigarette.

When he spoke again, his voice sounded flat. “Holy fucking shit.”

 

 

Zoro felt tension wind tighter in the pit of his stomach, mirroring the clench of his fingers of the bottle. Not wanting to see the chef’s reaction; but not surprised by it either. Now he’d said what he’d had to, he didn’t know what the hell else he could say. So he stayed silent.

Slowly Sanji reached into his pocket: pulled out his cigarettes again and extracted another one. Dropped the pack on the table, then took out his lighter. But didn’t light up. Sat holding the cigarette between two fingers. Gazing at it, turning his lighter slowly over and over in his other hand. Zoro saw the black and silver of the etched design, the swimming koi, appear and disappear between the chef’s fingers.

 

 

“There’s something I don’t understand.” Sanji spoke slowly, his eyes still on his cigarette.

Zoro considered what there was left, that he hadn’t said already. Because despite having told the chef most of his fucked-up past, it sounded like Sanji still wanted more. And there were things Zoro wasn’t going to share, even with the chef. Like that night in the bus station restroom, when he’d only just gotten away by the skin of his teeth from the guy who’d tried to rape him.

 _That_ particular memory could stay buried at the bottom of the black pit that comprised the majority of Zoro’s experiences from that period of his life. Because he wasn’t about to go there. For anyone.

 

But now Sanji looked up at him and Zoro had to meet his gaze. Having gone this far, there didn’t seem much point in holding a whole lot back. Zoro’s bridges weren’t just burned, they were bombed to fucking bits. He was just sitting on the wreckage, waiting to go down with it. So he responded to the chef’s words. “What don’t you understand?”

Sanji studied his face. “How were you expecting me to react to this?”

“Like most people would. If they found out I was a meth head who used to beat guys in illegal fights, for drug money.”

“Which is how?” The chef’s blue gaze held unblinkingly on him. “Exactly?”

“Find other places to be.” Zoro also leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees. Felt his mouth settle into a line. “Where I’m not.”

 

 

Sanji sighed. His gaze returned to his cigarette and lighter: after a moment he placed both on the table. Before sitting back and turning to face the swordsman. “Which brings me to my next question. If you thought I was going to react badly, to you telling me about this... Why’d you tell me?”

To Zoro that felt like a non-question. Like the Zen koans in the books which Koshiro used to share with him, years ago. _What colour is the wind? What was your original face, before your mother and father were born?_

He looked back at the chef. “I told you. I want to be straight with you.”

“You didn’t a week ago. What changed?”

“Nothing changed.” Zoro felt his fingers almost cramping where they gripped the beer bottle: carefully he reached out and placed it on the table, the glass meeting the wood with a soft _clunk_.

“I would’ve believed what you first told me, about how you got that scar.” Sanji said this carefully. “You didn’t have to tell me all this... about your past.”

 

 

Zoro shook his head. “I did have to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s part of who I am.” Zoro said this clearly. Deliberately.

“Part of who you _were_.”

“No. Part of me, right now. Like this fucking scar.” Zoro made a quick cutting gesture down his body. “You don’t ever quit being an addict. You just quit using the shit you’re addicted to. And it wasn’t just the meth.” The words thickened in his throat and almost stopped, but Zoro made himself keep going. “I got off on winning those fights. On fucking people up.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to take my word on that one.”

 

 

There was a short, crowded silence. Which Sanji broke. “This is so fucked.”

That was so entirely what Zoro was thinking, that he had no argument. “I warned you, shit cook. That this wasn’t a feel-good story.”

“Right, you did.” Sanji’s gaze hardened on his. “And now, what: you’re expecting me to walk away?”

Zoro felt something, some remaining final thread of a fraying tightrope beneath his feet, unravel. “...Yeah.”

 

 

“Crap... Moss-head, do you actually have a brain?” The chef gave a single sharp shake of his head. “Try using it.”

Zoro felt anger kindle, smouldering alight beneath the knot in the pit of his stomach. But he held onto it, kept it inside; as Sanji gestured expansively at him with one hand and spoke again. “Any asshole who reacted like that would be totally missing the point of everything you just told me.”

“Which is what?”

“You fucking _survived_.” Sanji said this vehemently. His eyes found the swordsman’s, and held them. “You were dumped into a totally shitty situation. And you got through it. You made some bad choices along the way, but fuck’s sake – do you know how many homeless people don’t make it? How many wind up hooked on drugs for the rest of their lives? Or wind up dead in an alleyway somewhere? You didn’t.”

 

 

This wasn’t turning out the way Zoro had thought it might. Which made him wonder if the chef really understood. “I did stuff that hurt other people. Maybe some of those people didn’t make it.”

“You weren’t exactly overburdened with good options.” Sanji shook his head sharply.

“I fucked people up, cook. To make money. So I could buy drugs I was hooked on. And I _enjoyed_ it.  Don’t you get it? I damaged  other people, not just myself.”

“Yeah. I get that.” The chef said this steadily.

Zoro released a hard breath. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Does it bother you?”

“What the fuck do you think?” The words broke from Zoro harshly: he didn’t know where the anger that was growing in him was going to go, but Sanji was there at ground zero.

 

 

The chef regarded him steadily, but didn’t answer right away. He leaned back a little, folding his arms across his chest.

When he spoke again his voice was quiet. “A week ago... I could’ve not asked you, about how you got that scar. That’s what started all this.”

Zoro said nothing. Not sure what to respond.

“But I wanted to know.” Sanji’s gaze drifted away, to some indeterminate point in space. “I wanted to know, how you got hurt. And now I know. You’re right, it’s not a good story. What happened to you. What you did, to get through it.” His eyes came back to meet the swordsman’s. “But we’re more than what we did in our past. You tell me that you fucked up people, in those fights... But what about the other things you’ve done? All those kids you helped, when you were working on that coaching project. How hard you work at kendo, how you’re the best kendōka in your dojo – and the people you teach there.” He paused for a moment. “And the good friends you’ve got, who trust you and rely on you: Luffy, and Ace, and Usopp.”

Zoro found his voice. “They don’t know about all this.”

“So what? They know you now. And even if you told them what you’ve told me, I bet they wouldn’t give a damn.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Maybe not. But I know what I feel, now you’ve told me what happened to you.” Sanji lifted his arm and reached across the gap between them. Closed his fingers around Zoro’s left hand, where it lay clenched into a fist. The swordsman felt the fierceness of that grip. “I’m glad you were strong enough to make it through all that shit.”

 

 

Zoro thought the chef still didn’t get it. “I don’t feel glad. About a lot of the things I did.”

“When you were still fighting... how often did that happen?”

“Every couple of weeks. Whenever they could get a bunch of fighters lined up, and a big enough crowd to make it pay.”

Sanji made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. “It’s fucking grim that people bet on that. Watching two guys hurt each other.”

“No different to betting on an MMA match. Except that’s legal,” Zoro responded drily.

“Like fuck is it no different. In MMA there are some rules, to keep fighters safe. Those fights you were in were just about damage: fucking each other up, bad. That’s what’s twisted about betting on it. Jesus, it’s like people getting a kick from watching goddamn gladiators kill each other.”

“People bet on whatever shit they can.” Zoro shifted his shoulders, easing them up slightly to try to release the tension that was rising there from the rest of his body. “My uncle being a pretty good example.”

“Fuck your uncle,” Sanji rejoined grimly. “Which I realise is being disrespectful of your family: but your uncle isn’t a good example of anything. He’s the main reason you ended up fighting for money in the first place.”

“Maybe I would’ve wound up doing something like that anyway.”

 

 

Sanji turned his head to look directly at the swordsman: an incredulous frown coming onto his face. “Why the hell do you think that?”

Zoro gave a humourless smile. “You want to know what I got called, when I fought there?”

A frown pulled Sanji’s brows together. “What the fuck has that got to do with anything?”

“They called me Roronoa _Oni.”_   Zoro narrowed his eyes slightly, remembering. “Some shithead there started off with it. Y’know, like a nickname. Then after a while, that’s what they all called me. When I was fighting.”

“So what does _Oni_ mean? I’m guessing it’s Japanese.”

“Yeah. It means ‘Demon’.”

“Your nickname at fight club was ‘Demon’? Way to go.” Sanji sounded like he was trying to lighten things up.

 

 

Zoro looked down at the floor. “You know much about Japanese mythology?”

“No. But I’m willing to learn.”

“According to old stories, when a human goes really bad – like, is so evil he can’t be redeemed – he transforms into an _Oni._ He becomes the servant of Enma, ruler of Hell: and his job is to destroy other humans, just for the enjoyment of it. Crush their bones, slice off their skin: basically tear them apart, for fun.”

“Okay, I get the picture. Some asshole called you by this not very nice nickname. What of it?”

“When I fought someone in that club, that was what people saw. That was what I became. _Oni.”_

 

 

There was a short silence. Broken by Sanji’s flat retort. “Bullshit.”

Zoro turned his head: met the chef’s angry gaze. “When I was fighting there, I stopped caring what happened.... as long as I won. I’d do whatever it took to take the other guy apart, beat him down till there was no way he was getting up. Then I’d walk off and get paid, with a big warm feeling inside.” Zoro didn’t know exactly why he was admitting to all of this. Except that now he’d started it felt like there was no point holding back.

“You were sixteen when you started fighting in that place. Against _adults._ ” Sanji held his gaze. “Exactly how long do you think you’d have lasted, if you hadn’t fought all out?”

Zoro didn’t need to ponder that one. “I didn’t plan on finding out.”

“Yeah. Which is why you survived. You did what you had to.”

Zoro heard Takenaka’s voice in his head, replaying from the past.

_\- When you let the demon out to play, it was always worth watching._

 

 

“Everyone’s got demons.” Sanji said this as though he’d heard the thought in Zoro’s head.

“Most people don’t let them take over.”

“Most people are lucky enough never to get stuck in a scenario where that happens.” Sanji gave his head a slight shake. “And when anyone gets put in that kind of situation... I bet you the odds are pretty fucking high that they go to the dark side, if it means surviving. Me included.”

Zoro wasn’t sure about that. But he’d run out of things to say. And the chef was still sitting there, looking at him. His hand still gripped Zoro’s fist, fingers wrapped around Zoro’s own.

 

 

After the silence had stretched long enough to feel suspenseful, Sanji spoke again. “Okay. Either you’re pondering the insightful wisdom of my words, or you’re thinking about whatever revelation you’re gonna hit me with next. If it’s the latter I’m gonna need to light another fucking cigarette.”

Unexpectedly, Zoro felt something like a laugh shaken loose from him. “Then you can relax, shitty cook. I’m done.”

“Okay. Then I better go rescue that salmon from the oven, because by now it’s gonna be like eating fish jerky.” Sanji gave a mock-irritated shake of his head. “You could’ve picked a better time to tell me all this, asshole.”

But his hand tightened briefly around the swordsman’s fist, before he released it and stood up.

 

 

Zoro let his gaze rise too, holding the chef’s. Needing to know: to stop him from moving away. “Oi.”

Sanji looked down at him. Zoro couldn’t think how to ask what he had to ask. So the words that came out sounded pretty damn stupid, given all that he’d just shared. “...Are we good?”

Sanji regarded him for a long moment. Before bending down and taking hold of Zoro’s head, pulling the swordsman in for a kiss that was forceful and real. The chef’s fingers clenching in the back of Zoro’s hair, holding him close and keeping him there to bruise their mouths together until they were hot and wet and forgetting to breathe.

When Sanji released his hold and they drew apart, the chef was smiling wryly. “That answer your question?”

Slowly Zoro smiled too.

 

 

 

 

 

Later, after they’d eaten dinner – which turned out nowhere near as bad as Sanji’s dire predictions – they wound up back on the couch. Not talking; just kicking back, some music playing in the background. Zoro sat with his shoulders against the couch end, stretched out along its length: the chef was propped against him, back touching Zoro’s chest.

They’d been there a while when Sanji released a slight sigh: then shifted a little, easing into a new position. Zoro, who’d almost been drifting into sleep, opened his eyes. “Your back acting up?”

“No... I’m okay.” The chef adjusted his shoulders slightly against the support of Zoro’s chest, then sighed again. “Just getting a little stiff.”

Zoro found himself overpowered by a yawn, but didn’t bother smothering it. The tensions of the evening had left him pretty wiped. “If we don’t head for the bedroom, pretty soon we’re gonna be sleeping here.”

 

 

“Not going to happen.” Sanji sounded definite about that one. “I just spent good money on getting my back fixed, I don’t plan to wreck it again by sleeping on the couch.”

“Feels okay here to me.” To reinforce his point, Zoro slung an arm over the other man, tugging him closer still.

“Says the guy who could nap in the middle of a six lane freeway.” Sanji said this drily. But didn’t try to pull away, Zoro noted.

The swordsman bent his head forward a little, first breathing on the side of his lover’s neck, then letting his lips graze over it. “I can think of a way to avoid falling asleep.”

“I bet.” Sanji’s breath hitched slightly as the swordsman put on pressure with his tongue. “Mhh... Not gonna wreck my back fucking with you on here, either.”

“How about fucking with me on your actual bed? Or did Chopper tell you to steer clear of that kind of stuff?”

“Chopper didn’t say shit about that!”

“Good. Because if he did I was gonna get him shitfaced drunk tomorrow, then let Luffy teach him to fire juggle.”

 

 

Sanji snorted. “Asshole. He’s gonna be your guest tomorrow: you have to be nice to him.”

“You invited him.”

“To your friend’s party. So you better make him welcome.”

“Uh huh. You bringing dessert tomorrow?”

“Why? You don’t like sweet stuff.”

“Yeah, but he does.” Zoro grinned at the memory of last Friday night. “Did you actually see the look on his face, when he was eating that ice cream you made?”

“Hah... Yeah.” Sanji sounded like he was grinning too. “It felt kind of like I was seducing a minor.”

“The guy’s twenty-two years old.”

“Uh huh... But he looks about thirteen.”

“Which would make you a chickenhawk.”

“Like fuck!” Sanji sounded outraged. “I didn’t say I _wanted_ to seduce him, asshole!”

“That would explain why you invited him to Luffy’s party.” Zoro was enjoying this.

“Let me explain to you why the chances of you and me having sex again – _ever_ \- are rapidly diminishing.” Sanji sounded like he was sidling up towards imminent violence. “And why you will be sleeping on this couch tonight solo, if you keep talking shit.”

 

 

Zoro tightened his arm around the chef. “You want me to talk dirty instead?”

“Not if it involves Chopper. And, by the way, ow.” Sanji growled this.

Zoro released his grip immediately, lifting his arm up off the other man. “Shit - sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” Sanji pushed himself upright on the couch - then got smoothly to his feet, grinning down at the swordsman. “Thanks for giving up so easily, dumbass.”

Zoro realised he’d just been played. He sat up. “Fucker.”

“Not your most impressive effort, as talking dirty goes.” Sanji smirked, and started wandering towards the doorway. “Maybe I will just go get a good night’s sleep.”

The swordsman stood up and moved after him. “You think?”

 

 

Once they got to the bed, talking dirty proved redundant. Both of them wanted this. To get as close as humanly possible, to feel the other crawling over their skin with fingers, body, tongue. To lose themselves for a while, in feeling good.

Sanji’s body arched slightly as Zoro’s teeth lightly closed on his nipple; then he groaned when the swordsman teased it with his tongue. Zoro let his hand slide down the chef’s side, just above his hip. He wanted to slide his hand further, under the small of Sanji’s back, and pull them closer together. But he remembered; and his fingers stilled where they were.

Slowly, deliberately, he tongued hard against the other man’s hardened nipple again: felt Sanji shiver underneath him. Their cocks brush against each other, where their hips pressed close.

Everything felt good and Zoro wanted to move: push himself harder against the heated flesh. Press his hips down, fuck slowly against the cook and feel that warm silky slide of skin against skin. Spread those long legs apart with his hands and find the way inside, teasing that sensitive muscled entrance with slick fingers until the chef was panting and ready. Fuck him into the mattress until they both came hard.

 

 

But instead he kept things careful, and slow, and his touches light. Until at last Sanji broke one of their kisses, and said in a voice that was breathless but verging on irritable, “Are you planning to keep this up all night?”

Zoro propped himself on his elbows, fixing the chef with an equally combative look. “I can go as long as you, shit cook. Just say the word.”

“Not what I meant, idiot.” Sanji rolled his eyes. “Why are you holding back?”

Zoro nudged his hips forward, so that their cocks slid together. “You in some kind of hurry?”

“No. But I wanna actually get fucked, sometime tonight.” The chef’s hand snaked down between them and closed around their cocks: began to stroke them together, putting on pressure. “And it looks like someone’s got to make that happen.”

 

 

Zoro let out a breath, then hissed another back in between his teeth. Resisting the urge to move forcefully into the motion: answer it with his hips. “You want fucking? That works for me too.”

“Then get on with it, moss brain.” Sanji lifted his head slightly, bringing his mouth close to Zoro’s ear: nibbling along its edge, biting at his earrings. “Before we both die of old age.”

“For someone who bitches about finesse as much as you do - ”

“Forget finesse and get busy.” Sanji almost growled this into his ear. “Otherwise I’m gonna make you sleep on that fucking couch after all.”

“That’s all the thanks I get for being considerate?” grumbled Zoro, miffed that his efforts were apparently being unappreciated.

 

 

The body under his went very still. Then in tones that threatened mayhem, Sanji said clearly. “I beg your fucking _pardon_.”

Unsure what he’d said wrong and still feeling somewhat rebuffed, Zoro enlarged on his last statement. “I was just being considerate, shitty cook. Thought you might appreciate me going easy on you.”

“Going easy on me?” Sanji repeated this slowly, as if tasting the words. Then sank his teeth sharply into the flesh of Zoro’s neck, giving him something that was considerably more bruising than a love bite.

“Oi!” Zoro would have pulled back, except for the fact that Sanji’s hand was still very much fastened around a part of his anatomy that he was attached to... And he wanted it to stay that way.

 

 

“ _Oi_   yourself, asshole. What gives you the startlingly insane idea that I need you to go easy on me?” Sanji growled this, blue gaze nailing Zoro at close range.

The swordsman scowled back at him. “Because a week ago you were lying flat on the floor whimpering like a girl?”

Sanji’s grip tightened in that vulnerable place. “Want to see if I can make you whimper, too?”

“Not right now.” Not that Zoro didn’t go for rough stuff, it was okay at the right time and when you’d agreed boundaries and safe words and shit like that beforehand... But this was unequivocally not the right time.

“Then take it back.”

“Take _what_ back?”

“You saying that crap about going easy on me.”

“Okay, fine. Forget I said it.”

“I will.” Sanji’s grip tightened just a fraction more... Then eased off, just enough for him to begin stroking his clenched hand around them both again. “As soon as you get down to business.”

 

 

Zoro let this happen. Because it felt really damn good. And when the chef bent his mouth against Zoro’s neck and bit his skin again, nipping softly this time down to the angle where neck met shoulder, that felt good too.

“Focus, moss-head.” Sanji’s voice murmured insistently, close to his ear.

 

 

Zoro turned his head to meet the other man’s mouth. Pushing it open with his own: sweeping his tongue deep, enjoying the way the chef yielded then responded with his own answering movement. Deepening the kiss, using his weight to bear the other man’s head down into the pillow... Then breaking off to trail his mouth down the pale neck, pausing to leave red marks on the skin; making the body beneath him twitch and shiver.

His hands found Sanji’s hips. Stroked downwards, caressing over the sculpted muscle of those lean thighs. Let his head follow, lips ghosting over chest and belly; finding the furred trail that led lower.

 

 

When he took the chef’s cock into his mouth, Zoro heard the other man let out a slight groan. Which made him smile, lips quirking around what he was going down on.

“Uhh... Fucking moss-head...” Sanji sounded thoroughly distracted.

Despite all the chef’s previous demands to the contrary, Zoro bided his time. Concentrating his efforts around the overly-sensitive underside of the head of Sanji’s cock: laving it with his tongue while one hand stroked along the shaft, the other lightly massaging his balls. Listening to the sounds the chef was trying hard not to make.

 

 

Sanji’s hips began to lift slightly, the other man seeking more. Zoro pushed himself up, his mouth leaving Sanji’s cock and making the chef groan with annoyance. “...Fucking hell!”

“Take it easy, cook.” Zoro reached for the lube: slicked his fingers, then brought them to where they needed to be. Eased his forefinger inside: and even though it was tight, he felt Sanji give a shiver of pleasure.

_Fuck, that’s hot._

Sanji’s head tipped back slightly, a flush rising on his skin, mouth open as he breathed into it. Shivering again when Zoro wrapped his other hand around Sanji’s cock and moved it slowly up and down.

 

 

It didn’t take long until they were both ready. But even then, when he was braced above Sanji, about to do what the chef had been asking for, Zoro felt something hold him back.

It couldn’t be the way Sanji looked. Eyes almost closed, breathing hard; that rosy flush across his skin. Hair fallen back from his face. Body warm and eager and open.

The chef injuring his back only a week before still dogged Zoro’s mind. But it was something else as well. Something to do with what they’d talked about, that night. The dark roads of memory Zoro had found himself walking down: revisiting places he’d hoped he’d never go to again.

 

 

_\- I fucked people up, cook... And I enjoyed it._

_\- Yeah. I get that._

 

 

Zoro could feel the heat in the chef’s body, beneath his. Could feel breath pulling unsteadily in, shivering out: meshing with his own. The sensation of another human being, skin to skin, so close they could feel the other’s pulse rocking them from the inside. Beating strong.

Sanji’s eyes opened then, blue with the pupils dilated so wide they looked sea-dark. And the graceful spiralled brows drew downwards. “Ah...” One hand lifted: fastened round the back of Zoro’s neck, and pulled his head downwards. Lips parting his, kissing hard and deep. Before speaking against his skin. “C’mon. _Fuck_ me already.”

That hot mouth recaptured his. Zoro felt himself pulled in. And in.

 

 

_Fuck yeah_

 

 

Then he was moving, moving the way he wanted to. The way they both wanted. Tasting the cook’s mouth on his, sharing the same breath. Feeling an answering need. And trusting the rhythm of that need to hold them. Carry them both to where they could let go.

 

 

_It’s okay._

 

 

The thought rose in Zoro’s mind. And then he quit thinking.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait for this latest update, I kept rewriting this chapter... Hope I got it right, finally. *wipes brow*
> 
> For those of you who were wondering if I'd run the backstory right up to Kuina's death, as you can see: I haven't. AWC will touch on that part of Zoro's life again at some point in a future arc, but for this chapter I wanted to get back to the here and now. Been missing Sanji, and wanted to get him and Zoro back together ASAP. Those two have a lot of stuff to deal with.
> 
> Hope you're still enjoying. Only one more chapter to go: Luffy and his rooftop party, lotsa beers, plus fire. Yeah, that should go well... :-D


	9. Just Wanna Be Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You and Sanji seem to be spending a lot of time together.” Ace said this noncommittally.
> 
> “Most weekends, I guess.”
> 
> “And Usopp told me you met Sanji’s dad, a couple months back.”
> 
> Zoro raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, so?”
> 
> “You get the parental seal of approval?”
> 
> Zoro thought of his encounter with Zeff. “Not exactly.”
> 
> “The two of you didn’t bond, huh?”
> 
> “His old man threatened me with a carving knife. That count?”
> 
> Ace let out a low whistle. “Man... You have got to work on your social skills."

 

* * *

 

 

_Secrets I have held in my heart_  
_Are harder to hide than I thought_  
_Maybe I just wanna be yours_  
_I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours_

_\- Arctic Monkeys_

 

* * *

 

 

When Sanji awoke there was sunlight lying in a pale yellow slice on the wall, morning breaking into the room through a chink where he hadn’t quite closed the curtains properly the night before. He must have left the window slightly ajar too: as he watched, the curtains swayed into the room, just a little; then fell back again against the sill.

Zoro’s arm lay draped over him, the swordsman’s body warm at his back. Sanji could hear the deep, heavy sounds of his lover’s breathing in sleep; feel it slightly stirring the hair at the back of his own neck.

It wasn’t a bad way to wake up, all things considered. Warm and relaxed and no urgency to have to get up for work or be anywhere, or do anything. And the memory of what they did here in bed last night drifting up now, images that made him smile and sent pleasant ripples of feeling through his body.

 

 

_Mhmm..._

 

 

Then his memory scrolled further back, and Sanji blinked at the sunlight lying on the bedroom wall. Feeling something less easy surface within him.

Zoro and himself last night, sitting at either end of the couch. The swordsman gripping a bottle of beer, holding onto it tightly as he told Sanji that he’d lied to him the weekend before. Then telling him the actual truth.

 

 

Sanji came all the way awake, with an uncomfortable clarity. And found himself taking a deep breath: staring at the sunlight on the wall as if it would somehow cast its golden wash over the darkness of what he’d heard last night.

Zoro’s arm felt heavy over his ribs. When Sanji put his hand to it, holding the swordsman’s wrist and carefully lifting it away, he half expected the other man to wake up. But Zoro’s breathing didn’t even falter: he slept on, even when Sanji slid himself sideways and out of bed, slipping from under the covers.

He stood and found some clothes, pulling them on. Looked back for a moment at his sleeping lover in the bed, before stealing out of the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him.

 

 

Sanji made coffee, lit a cigarette; took both to the main room, where he sat on the couch. When he checked the time on his phone, it was a little after eight a.m. Early for a weekend: late compared to when he usually got up for work.

The coffee was hot and strong and the cigarette tasted familiar enough to ground Sanji in the here and now. But it didn’t stop the thoughts that were circling in his head.

_Too early in the morning for this crap._

It was hard to sort out what he was feeling. Last night he’d focused on showing Zoro that he could deal, that he wasn’t going to freak out. And this morning?

Sanji was aware that in the clear light of day, last night’s revelations seemed sharper-edged.

 

 

Sip of coffee; pull of nicotine.

_Do normal things. Everything’s gonna be okay._

Things did not feel normal. Because normal was a few zones away from where Sanji currently felt he resided.

Bombshell number one: his lover was an addict. An addict no longer using drugs, admittedly; which made it less worrying.

_Hold that thought._

Bombshell number two: his lover used to beat the shit out of total strangers for money.

Bombshell number three: and he used to enjoy doing it.

 

 

Sanji attempted to conjure any positives out of those last two revelations, and failed dismally.

_Fucking hell._

 

 

The chef’s mind ran back through the conversation last night, the bits that he could remember. Which was most of it, on account of it remaining pretty indelibly etched into his brain.

_\- I fucked people up, cook. To make money. So I could buy drugs I was hooked on. And I enjoyed it._

The way Zoro’s hand had clenched around the neck of his beer bottle, knuckles growing bone white. His gaze meeting Sanji’s, then looking away. The swordsman’s shoulders held tensely, bracing for the inevitable.

 

 

Sanji had never seen Zoro look uncertain. Never seen him show any sign of weakness. Even that time on New Year’s Eve when Zoro had spilled his guts under the influence of crazy amounts of sake and beer and whiskey, when he’d talked about losing Kuina: he’d done it with a kind of hard-edged intensity, words unblurred even after all the alcohol he’d downed. Showing loss and rage, for sure: but no vulnerability.

Last night had felt different. Although vulnerable was not the word that first came to mind when remembering what Zoro had talked about.

_\- When I was fighting I stopped caring what happened... As long as I won. I’d do whatever it took to take the other guy apart, beat him down till there was no way he was getting up. Then I’d walk off and get paid, with a big warm feeling inside._

 

 

If any other person had told Sanji something like that, he knew what he’d have thought. That he was listening to someone who was borderline psycho. Or at the very least, had some serious fucking issues.

Even if Zoro had been cranked up on meth, and stuck in a situation that would have pushed a lot of people over into the red-line zone... Enjoying damaging other people was not a trait that Sanji had ever in his wildest dreams imagined himself feeling sympathetic towards. Less still, attracted to someone who possessed it.

_\- I got off on winning those fights. On fucking people up._

_\- I don’t believe that._

_\- Well, you’re gonna have to take my word on that one._

 

 

Sanji had said he hadn’t believed it because denial had felt like the best option. Because this was Zoro; and nothing the chef had seen of his boyfriend so far made all this, this _shit,_ about getting kicks from hurting other people, ring true. No matter what the swordsman insisted to the contrary.

Except. New Year’s Eve. That fight Zoro had gotten in, when those drunk assholes at the club had jumped him. The way the swordsman had given Sanji that shark-like grin, before wading in to take on half a dozen attackers like it was what he’d been waiting for all night.

_Yeah. But they fucking deserved it. And I joined in too._

 

 

That wasn’t exactly the point. Except maybe it partly was.

Sanji took a hard pull on his cigarette and stared into space, not liking where his thinking was going.

_I kicked the crap out of those guys too. And I didn’t exactly hate doing it._

He remembered the aftermath, outside on the street: the two of them walking back to his place, him stealing covert glances at the swordsman, sizing him up. The fact that his gut told him Zoro was trouble, but that this didn’t stop him inviting the swordsman back to his place. That if anything, it made him want it more.

 

 

Sanji found himself smiling wryly at the memory of that night. But his smile slipped away.

_So I’m as fucked up as he is? Great. This should end well._

Sanji’s days of going beserker every time someone pushed his buttons had ended while he was still at school, and he had no wish to revisit them. He could more than handle himself in a fight, and anyone who’d ever majorly got in his face had lived to regret it; but that was a big step away from getting a big happy from knocking the shit out of someone.

Which took him right back to where he’d started. Zoro sitting right here on this couch last night, and ‘fessing up to exactly that. In the past, several years ago, sure: but the swordsman had been pretty damn clear that he considered that a minor detail.

 

 

Sanji’s cigarette was almost down to the filter. He took a last hit on it, before stubbing it out. Exhaling a long stream of smoke; then sitting back on the couch.

_So what now?_

Pretty soon Zoro would wake up. And they would eat some breakfast. Then Sanji had a bunch of work emails and _Bite Me_ stuff to do, so Zoro would probably head back to his place. And sometime later on Sanji would go over there too for Luffy’s crazy rooftop party, where there would be a bunch of people and barbecue to be cooked and presumably music and everyone having fun. So if Sanji was going to freak out about last night’s revelations then he better do that now, because later really wasn’t going to be a good time.

 

 

_Arrghh._

Sanji propped one elbow on his knee and planted his face in his hand, screwing his eyes shut. Aware that he probably looked like some emo cliché, but not actually caring.

_\- This is so fucked._

That’s what he’d said to Zoro last night. And he’d meant it. Not just what Zoro had told him, although that in itself was fucked enough. But also the swordsman feeling like he had to tell Sanji all the harsh truth about his past. Which, okay: good, truth absolutely a requisite of a good relationship. But now this truth had come out; and however you cut this, it was a game-changer. Zoro had revealed a part of himself, for Sanji to accept or reject. Which upped the ante, big time.

 

 

Everything spiralled round and round in Sanji’s head. Nothing fundamentally changing. The bad stuff Zoro said he’d done; the bad stuff that he claimed was still a part of him. The fact that even given all of this, Sanji was pretty damn sure that none of it was enough to make him walk away.

But to make him feel troubled?

_Yeah. If I’m totally fucking honest._

He trusted Zoro: there was nothing he’d felt in the other man that made him doubt that. Even having been lied to by the swordsman, because Zoro had admitted to that and obviously felt shitty about having done it... So in a weird sort of way, that made Sanji trust him more.

But there was still an uneasy feeling in the pit of Sanji’s stomach, carrying this new knowledge about Zoro’s past. Somewhere very deep down, a very small but insistent voice asking the question, _When someone does bad stuff like that, how deep does it really get buried?_

 

 

_\- When the shit goes down, old bad habits come knocking._

Zoro talking last night, about how he’d gone back to taking drugs when his friend had been killed. But did it apply to the other stuff, too?

Sanji let out a long breath. Before lifting his head out of his hand and opening his eyes.

_If I was gonna have doubts about any of this... The time to have voiced them was last night._

And last night he hadn’t. He’d told Zoro that he was glad the other man had done what he’d needed to, to survive. Which was the truth. And that was still the truth, in the cold light of day. Whatever else was in the mix: Sanji was glad Zoro was in his life. In his bed right now, sleeping. And that was what mattered.

Wasn’t it?

 

 

It occurred to Sanji only now, some of the things he hadn’t asked his lover last night.

_Was the time you got sliced up in that sword fight the only time you got hurt?_

Unlikely.

_How the hell did you manage, before you started earning money fighting?_

Zoro had been fifteen when his uncle had abandoned him. And sixteen when he’d started with the fights: so that left a big chunk of time, when Zoro had done – what? Lived on the streets? And then in this shithole squat he’d mentioned?

Sanji remembered an earlier conversation that they’d had a few months back, over dinner at Karim’s on their first date. When Sanji had asked the swordsman about what he’d done when he’d first found himself homeless. And Zoro’s short reply.

_\- Found places I could hang out. I managed okay._

That Zoro’s life as a teenager had been okay, was not something Sanji believed on any level.

 

 

A sound behind him made Sanji glance around. The clunk of the bathroom door closing.

_Okay, time’s up. Deal and move on._

He took a swallow of rapidly-cooling coffee, and sat on the couch with his mug cupped in both hands. Pulling his circling thoughts into some sort of order that he could live with. And making sure that what came onto his face when Zoro appeared in the doorway, looking still rumpled from sleep, was an actual smile. “...Hey.”

“...Mhh.” Zoro’s grunt was followed by a wide yawn, the swordsman rubbing one hand against the back of his head. “Mornin’.”

“Coffee?”

“Uh huh.” Zoro’s gaze rested on the chef. “You been up a while?”

 

 

Sanji indicated the ashtray on the low table before him. “Needed a cigarette.”

The swordsman nodded, but his eyes still regarded his boyfriend. “Thought maybe you’d want to sleep in. Being the weekend and all.”

“Mm.” Sanji made a noncommittal noise. “Daylight woke me up. Then I just got thinking about stuff I need to do, today.”

“Work stuff?”

“Yeah, a few things. Then I want to prep some food for tonight.”

 

 

Zoro looked towards the window, where the sunshine was coming in. “Looks like it’s gonna be good weather for Luffy’s shindig.” He turned his gaze back to Sanji. “What time you gonna head on over?”

“Ahh, around eight, I guess. Are you guys firing up the barbecue early, or waiting till folks get there?”

The swordsman shrugged. “Whenever.”

“It takes a while for coals to get hot enough for cooking over. You should light it up an hour before we want to eat.”

Zoro let out a short laugh. “No big ‘f we have to wait a while. There’ll be plenty of beers.”

Sanji raised an eyebrow. “I don’t plan on winding up with food poisoning from eating chicken that’s still raw in the middle.”

“Okay, shit cook. You want to be barbecue iron chef, no-one’s gonna stand in your way.” The swordsman rolled his eyes slightly.

 

 

“Idiot moss.” Sanji got to his feet, picking up his coffee cup. “I’m gonna go start on breakfast.” He moved towards the kitchen, stepping past the swordsman.

“Oi, cook.” Zoro reached out and snagged his hand, and Sanji felt those strong fingers curl round his own: tug him closer. The two of them leaning in close enough to share a kiss.

Then Zoro released him and they drew apart. Just for a moment the swordsman’s eyes searched Sanji’s; as if checking what was there.

The chef’s other hand had come up without thinking, fingers fastening around Zoro’s arm. Feeling its warmth: the firm muscle beneath the skin.

Sanji found himself giving the other man a quick smile. “Breakfast.” And he let go, before walking away. His lips still warmed by the press of Zoro’s mouth.

 

 

 

 

 

Sanji made scrambled eggs on toast, which they ate with orange juice and a large fresh-brewed cafetière of coffee. Once he’d done eating he moved away from the couch where Zoro was still finishing his breakfast, and began working through the back exercises Chopper had given him to do.

After a while Zoro addressed him. “Those moves helping any?”

“Yeah. My back’s not great when I first get up... Kinda stiff. But these loosen things up.”

“Guess you probably don’t feel up to going for a run.”

“You guess right.” Sanji did a careful stretch, holding it and counting silently to ten. “Maybe next weekend.”

There was a clink of crockery being stacked; then Zoro spoke again. “I’ll go wash up. You want any more coffee?”

“No, I’m good.” Sanji couldn’t see the swordsman from the prone position he was in, lying on his back on the floor. “You had enough to eat?”

“Uh huh.”

 

 

Footfalls moving away were followed by distant sounds of water being run in the kitchen: then the clash of cookware. Sanji lay still on the floor with his knees slightly bent, letting the muscles of his back settle. Raising his voice, he called, “Hey – don’t scrub that skillet along with the dishes!”

“How else I’m gonna get it clean?” came the swordsman’s disgruntled reply. “You want me to leave it soaking or something?”

“No! You ruin my fucking carbon steel frypan, moss brain, I’ll crack your skull with it. Just leave it on the side, I’ll deal with it when I come through.”

“...Whatever.” Zoro’s growl was barely audible. Sanji found himself smiling wryly up at the ceiling.

 

 

Breakfast over with, Sanji fired up his laptop while Zoro got his stuff together. The chef was sitting at his desk opening emails when the swordsman appeared beside him, looking ready to go. Sanji looked up at him. “You heading out?”

“Uh huh.” Zoro nodded.

“Okay.” Sanji gave him a smile. “I’ll see you later. ‘Bout eight, yeah?”

“Cool.” Zoro bent down just enough to claim a kiss from the chef, before turning and walking away. Sanji watched him leave... Then returned his attention to his laptop.

 

 

 

* * * * * *

 

 

 

“Aww, c’mon, Ace - it’s not like I’m gonna set the roof on fire!”

“No, and you know why not? Because I don’t plan on letting you fire juggle.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“Yeah; real convincing, Luffy.”

“Lame ass. It’s my party, I oughta get to do what I want!”

“The statute of limitations on that particular entitlement stops short at torching the neighbourhood.”

“...You suck.”

“Love ya too, kid bro.”

 

 

A footstep scuffed against the rooftop near Zoro: a moment later Ace crouched down beside him, letting out a hard sigh. “Need a hand with that?”

Zoro looked up from the string of LED lights he was attempting to untangle. “Fuck yeah.”

Ace regarded the lights critically. “Which end are you starting from?”

“The middle.”

“There’s your problem, right there.” Ace picked up an end, and started unpicking the nearest knot.

Zoro grunted. “Should’ve been Usopp’s problem. He’s the one brought all this twinkly shit over to put up.”

“Mm-hm.” Ace bent his head over his work, concentrating. “But he’s on the case with making sure we’ve got a kick-ass sound system.”

 

 

Zoro abandoned the middle of the lights to attempt an end, emulating his friend’s example. “When we wind up getting kicked out of our apartment, it okay if I come sleep on your couch?”

Ace grinned. “Sanji’s place not big enough for two?”

“Little early for that...” Zoro gave the fire juggler a look.

“That mean you’re thinking about it?” Ace got an extremely interested expression on his face.

“Hell no. We’ve only been together five months.”

“Which is long enough for you to have an idea of whether this is gonna go the whole nine yards,” Ace commented lightly.

 

 

Zoro made no reply to that. Which Ace evidently took as a cue to push a little more. “So... Things’re going well, with you and him?”

“Yeah.” Zoro thought about the previous night, and amended his answer. “Pretty much.”

 “Luffy said Sanji hurt his back, the other weekend. He okay now?”

“Uh huh. He got some treatment from this physio guy, fixed him up.”

“How’d he hurt himself?” Ace’s mouth quirked up at one corner. “Bedroom related?”

“He’s not big into playing rough.”

“Says you.” Ace reached out with one forefinger and flicked Zoro’s neck. “He likes biting, huh?”

Having looked at himself in the bathroom mirror that morning, Zoro knew that Sanji’s bite from the night before had left him with a bruise that was unmistakeable. As if to confirm this, Ace raised one salacious eyebrow. “You _sure_ he’s not into playing rough? Maybe you just haven’t asked him the right way.”

Zoro regarded him levelly. “I know it’s hard for you to imagine, but not every other person on this planet has a life that revolves around fucking.”

“Whoa, you guys have only been together five months and you’re already entering bed death territory? That’s tragic.” Ace was grinning now.

Sitting back on his heels, Zoro gestured with his thumb in the general direction of away. “Y’know, I think I’ve got this lights shit covered. You want to go back and carry on arguing with your annoying kid brother?”

“Zing.” Ace let out a laugh, before bending back to the task in hand. “Hell no. Baiting you is way more fun.”

Zoro resumed tugging at the snarl of wires. “...Fucker.”

 

 

There was a space of about half a minute where no-one said anything, then Ace spoke again. “So you and Sanji _are_ okay, then.”

“We’re fine.” As soon as Zoro had said it, he felt as if he’d crossed over some line inside.

“You seem to be spending a lot of time together.” Ace said this noncommittally.

“Most weekends, I guess.”

“And Usopp told me you met Sanji’s dad, a couple months back.”

Zoro raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, so?”

“You get the parental seal of approval?”

 

 

Zoro thought of his encounter with Zeff. “Not exactly.”

“The two of you didn’t bond, huh?”

“His old man threatened me with a carving knife. That count?”

Ace let out a low whistle. “Man... You have _got_ to work on your social skills. What happened, he doubt your intentions towards his offspring?”

“Something like that.”

“That must’ve been a bundle of fun for Sanji: you and his dad giving each other evils over the dinner table.”

“It wasn’t so bad. Once he’d threatened to slice me open, he kinda relaxed a bit.”

“Jesus. Families, eh.” Ace said this thoughtfully.

 

 

They were both quiet for a moment. Zoro used this as an opportunity to change the direction of the conversation. “Speaking of which, you heard from your grandfather lately?”

“Nope. Which is the way I want it.” Ace frowned at a particularly intransigent tangle of lighting wire, tugging at it. “The only time I ever hear from the old bastard is when he wants to remind me what a complete disappointment I am.”

“He’s still mad about you sticking with the fire show work?”

“Amongst other things.” Ace’s mouth twisted. “He hasn’t exactly been overjoyed about me and Marco being together, either.”

“Big surprise.”

“Ye-ah, for sure I wasn’t expecting his blessing. But I’ve been out to him since I was fucking fifteen, you think he’d have got his head around it by now.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“Every once in a while I get a letter from him. Which mostly outlines all the ways I could turn my life around if I put my mind to it. Plus instructions for how I should be taking my responsibilities as an older brother more seriously, and making Luffy get his shit together.”

 

 

Zoro let out a short laugh. “Good luck with that.”

“It’s like the old fart has this picture in his head of how me and Luffy should be living now, that has zero to do with who we actually are... And he takes it as some kind of personal affront. Like, we turned out the way we did just to piss him off.”

“You ever wish things were different?”

Ace got a wicked glint in his eyes. “Fuck, no. It’s got so I _enjoy_ pissing him off. I keep thinking, the next time he writes me I’m gonna write him back and tell him me and Marco are gonna tie the knot because I’m having the best fucking sex of my life.”

“Yeah, that’ll go good. Your grandfather’ll have a coronary.”

“I should be so lucky.” Ace grimaced. “No, scratch that last comment. I don’t want the old bastard to drop dead, even if he is an almighty pain in the ass.”

“And incidentally... You and Marco tying the knot? Did I miss something?”

 

 

Shaking his head, Ace smiled. “Just kidding. Neither of us is ready to be tied down.” His eyebrows quirked together, and he let out a snort. “Not _that_ way, anyhow.”

“You guys seem to be going strong. What is it, fifteen months now?”

“Yep. Fifteen months, two weeks, four days.” Ace smiled beatifically. “This being-in-love thing is the shit.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“Never thought I’d see you with someone for five months, either.” Ace gave him a sidelong smile. “Yet here we are.”

“Yeah, well...” Zoro found himself smiling too. “Kinda snuck up on me.”

The fire juggler regarded him, his smile broadening slightly. “Gotta say: seems like you’re in a good place. ‘Bout fucking time.”

 

 

A _clunk_ of a door opening made both men look around: to see Usopp emerging from the roof access door, clutching a double armful of tech paraphernalia. He spotted them and gave a cheerful grin. “Yo, guys! I bring a sound system so mighty it will rock the neighbourhood!”

Zoro looked at Ace. “I can crash on your couch when I’m homeless, right?”

“ _Mi casa es su casa,_ ” Ace responded. “Hey ‘Sopp: where are you gonna get the power for that thing? There’s no points up here to plug into.”

Usopp set his load on a wooden crate that had been placed towards one side of the rooftop. “No problemo. These speakers are self-powered and fully charged, and I’ve got a bomb-ass party playlist just ready to go on my laptop. Tonight we _rock!”_

 

 

“Yayy!” Luffy suddenly materialised, from wherever he’d temporarily been amusing himself. “We’ve got sounds! Crank it up, Usopp.”

“Right on it.” Usopp began arranging his sound system on the crate. “But, we starting the party early? Thought the plan was to wait till sunset to kick things off.”

“We got this shit to string up, yet.” Zoro lifted one end of the lights and gave them a dismissive shake.

“Ahhh, lights! Yeah.” Luffy folded his arms, with a satisfied grin. “Gotta make everything look cool.”

“How about you hauling ass down to our apartment, and bringing up some chairs and the rest of the junk you wanted up here? Unless we’re all gonna sit on the asphalt.”

“Yeah! I can do that!” Luffy turned on his heel and sped through the access doorway.

 

 

Ace watched his younger brother go. “Man, he’s spazzing out. S’gonna be a long night.”

Zoro looked sidelong at him. “What time are you and Marco planning to do your fire show?”

“Sometime late. When everyone’s done eating, I guess.”

“You figured out how you’re gonna keep Luffy from joining in?”

“I thought maybe we could tie him to a chair.” Ace ran his hand into his hair. “Shit... Hope this rooftop isn’t flammable.”

 

 

 

 

 

Once they’d finished untangling the lights and gotten them strung up, Zoro left Usopp setting up the sound system and Ace directing Luffy in arranging chairs and cushions across the roofspace. Descending to his and Luffy’s apartment, Zoro walked through the open door and headed for the kitchen.

“Everything okay up there?” Marco glanced up from where he was sitting at the table, checking something on his phone.

“Uh huh...” Zoro crossed to the refrigerator and got out a beer; waggled a second bottle at Marco, who indicated with a nod and raised eyebrows that he’d have one too. “Coming together.”

“Great.” Marco took the beer with a smile of thanks. “Ace thrown Luffy off the roof yet?”

“Give it another half hour.”

Marco chuckled. “That long?”

 

 

Zoro propped himself against the counter, and took a gulp of beer. “Luffy’s pretty stoked about you guys doing your fire show tonight.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Marco looked slightly rueful. “I just hope he doesn’t become part of it.”

“Could be interesting.”

“Yeah: interesting as in, ‘Call 911 quick, Luffy’s on fire.’ ”

“Yeah... Remind me to tell Usopp to film it, I’ll bet _Rooftop fireshow goes tragically wrong_  will get a ton of hits on YouTube.”

“Schadenfreude...” Marco raised his beer and took a mouthful. “Always thought you were the sadistic type.”

“You’d know.” Zoro gave the tall fire juggler a mocking grin.

“You been talking to Ace?”

“Yeah. But not about that, specifically.”

“Any time you want a few pointers, we’d be happy to share.”

“Uh huh,” Zoro answered drily.

 

 

Marco tilted back in his chair a little, regarding him. “Sanji’s coming tonight, yeah?”

“Should show up pretty soon. Said he’d be here around eight.”

“He stoked about seeing our fireshow, too?” A smile still curved Marco’s lips.

Zoro shrugged. “He’s not going fanboy like Luffy, if that’s what you mean.”

“Guess we’ll have to try extra hard to impress him, then.” Marco’s eyebrows lifted, in that way that made him look like he knew something you didn’t.

Zoro looked at the other man. “He’s not easily impressed.”

“We like a challenge.” Marco sounded unphased. “And Ace likes your chef.”

“Newsflash: Ace likes anyone with a pulse.” Zoro didn’t mean this to come out sounding as harsh as it did; but luckily Marco seemed unoffended.

“Yeah, he has no inhibitions whatsoever.” Marco gave Zoro a real smile this time: one that signified he’d been playfully yanking Zoro’s chain. “Lucky me.”

 

 

After a moment, Zoro found himself smiling in return. “Guess so.”

Marco chuckled, before stowing his phone in his pocket. “You guys need a hand setting anything up?”

“Probably. I left those three arguing about where to build a bar counter.”

“Your neighbours know you’re throwing this party up there?”

“Luffy went round every other apartment on this floor to tell them. With an open invite to anyone to come join in.”

“Yeesh.” Marco pulled a face. “That could seriously backfire.”

“I doubt anyone’ll take him up on it. Three of the other tenants on this floor are old people; then there’s a guy who works nights so he’ll be out anyhow.” Zoro took a pull on his beer. “Plus a few families... Don’t think there’s anyone who’s likely to show.”

“Long as no one calls law enforcement, then... We should be sweet.”

“Someone in this apartment block phoning the cops? Not too fucking likely.” Zoro smiled grimly.

 

 

Usopp appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Where would I find your duct tape?”

Regarding him impassively, Zoro shrugged. “It’s news to me that we have any.”

“No _duct tape?_ Are you for real?” Usopp shook his head. “Dude, the universe stops functioning without duct tape! It’s the dark matter that holds everything together.”

“Theoretical physics aside, have you got the sound system working yet?” inquired Marco.

“Up and running. But we’re waiting till everyone comes up top before I start with the funkadelic sounds.”

“Did Ace give you the music mix for our fire routine?”

“Not yet. You want me to sound check it?”

“That was meant to be the idea, yeah.” Marco got up, letting out a slight sigh. “Why _I’ve_ always got to be the one has to take charge of all this shit...”

Zoro gave him a mocking grin. “Would’ve thought that was pretty standard dom operating procedure.”

Marco rolled his eyes. “Oh, believe me: the tales I could tell.”

“Later. When I’ve had a few drinks, maybe.”

 

 

Usopp folded his arms across his chest. “You weirdos are making me uncomfortable.”

“That’s my special talent.” Marco leaned way into the artist’s personal space. “And I’ll bet I can make you enjoy it, too.”

“Okay, this is verging on bad touching,” Usopp proclaimed, fending off the fire juggler with a screwdriver. “Zoro – give me duct tape, I’m begging you.”

“Sweet stuff, I don’t need duct tape,” purred Marco. “But I can do _amazing_ things with rope. Wanna see how creative I can get with knots?”

 

 

The sound of someone knocking on the apartment door interrupted this rapidly escalating scenario, and Zoro’s amusement. Swallowing a laugh, he yelled, “Yeah – c’mon in, door’s open!”

Footsteps in the passage beyond were followed by two more people appearing in the doorway: Sanji, with Nami in tow. The chef took in the tableau in the kitchen with a slight smile. “Hey. I take it this means we’re early, if the party hasn’t even moved to the roof yet.”

“We’re heading up there! Right away!” Usopp took this opportunity to sidle backwards, strategically placing himself nearer to Nami and further away from Marco. “Just follow me.”

“Can I get a drink first?” Nami asked drily, eyeing the artist.

“Absolutely... We’re in the process of creating a rooftop bar that will blow your mind. With yours truly laying down some funksome grooves that will get everyone into the zone.” Usopp gestured grandly towards the passageway. “Happening music and fine liquor await.”

“Great. Lead on.” Nami lifted a bag which clinked, favouring everyone with a wicked smile. “My contribution to the festivities.”

 

 

Marco also moved towards the exit. “I better go set up this music track for our routine, seeing as Pyro up there has spaced it.” He gave Sanji a slow smile. “Hi... Nice to see you again.”

“Same as that,” Sanji answered.

Following after Usopp and Nami, Marco winked at Zoro. “Better go make sure our fireshow will look... _impressive_.” With that parting shot, he headed out.

 

 

Sanji looked at the swordsman. “Some kind of subtext I’m missing out on here?”

Zoro snorted. “The usual, with those guys.”

The chef placed a couple of bags on the table. “Care to share?”

“Yeah, that about covers it.”

Sanji looked momentarily stymied. Then a slight flush rose onto his cheekbones. “Ah... We talking about what I think we’re talking about?”

Zoro took a hit on his beer, before fixing him with a steady look. “Ever do a four-way?”

The chef blinked. “Seriously?”

 

 

Zoro gave it another few seconds... Before letting out a low laugh. Immediately, Sanji reddened. “Piss-taking shitty piece of pervert moss!”

“Take it as a compliment, love cook.” The swordsman gave him a grin.

“Asshole.” The chef narrowed his eyes.

“Admit it: you were actually thinking about it for a moment.”

“You have an overactive imagination.” Colour still suffused in the other man’s face. “And the morals of an alley cat.”

Raising one eyebrow, Zoro took another swallow of beer. “Thought you told me you’d like to see Ace and Marco putting on a show together.”

“And your mind is in the gutter. Did I mention that your mind is in the gutter?”

“I think both of them might go for you. You’re totally their type. Easy on the eye, athletic; flexible.” Zoro was really starting to enjoy this. “Good at taking orders.”

 

 

The chef stepped in quickly, grabbing the front of the swordsman’s t-shirt. “I am gonna kick your ass _so hard_ if you don’t stop talking shit.”

“Wouldn’t be fair me fighting you right now. Being as how you’re disabled and all.”

Sanji pressed his forehead against the other man’s, baring his teeth. “You have two seconds to improve my mood.”

Zoro simply found the chef’s mouth with his own and kissed him. Hard.

 

 

Maybe a minute later, they drew back a little. After taking a necessary breath in, Sanji said, “Well, that’s a start.”

“We could go to my room,” Zoro suggested. “Those guys on the roof won’t miss us for a while.”

Rolling his eyes, Sanji stepped away. “Alley cat. Gutter. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“You’re no fun.” Zoro watched as the chef rooted through the contents of the bags he’d placed on the table. “What the hell is all that stuff?”

“Chicken and lamb, to go on the barbecue... Coleslaw, I made a big vat of it...” Sanji checked the various items he brought. “A green salad. And chocolate brownies.”

“Fuck, cook... What are you, the den mother? You didn’t have to lay all this on.”

 

 

Stopping to give the swordsman a level stare, Sanji shook his head. “I like feeding people.”

“Feeding Luffy is a full-time occupation.” Zoro regarded all the provisions. “Making all this stuff must’ve cost you a few bucks.”

“Well, I didn’t buy him a birthday present. So this is my gift.” The chef smiled. “Make yourself useful and help me carry it upstairs. Has anyone lit the barbecue yet?”

 

 

 

 

 

When they came out of the access door onto the rooftop, what greeted them was a scene of varying activity: Luffy head-to-head with Ace, gesturing wildly with an unlit fire torch; Marco looking on with the detached amusement of a non-responsible bystander; and Usopp cueing up music on his sound system, while talking with Nami.

The lights that Zoro and Ace had untangled earlier were finally up and twinkling in the gathering evening dusk: here and there candles flickered in lanterns and jars, in between the cushions and chairs that had been placed on the rooftop.

“Wow.” Sanji seemed to be taking it all in. “This is... great.”

Zoro looked around too. And had to admit, his friends had done a pretty good job between them. As well as the seating, a make-shift bar had been set up at one side of the space, laden with bottles and a cooler and illuminated by another set of Usopp’s battery-powered lights.

 

 

“Sanji!” Luffy spotted them and abandoned his brother, bouncing up to the chef with a wide welcoming grin. He flung his arms around Sanji’s shoulders. “Great to see you!”

“Happy birthday, Luffy.” Sanji simultaneously smiled and winced at the younger man’s enthusiastic hug.

“Take it easy, shithead,” Zoro growled, seeing this. “He’s got a fucked up back, remember?”

“Oops, oh yeah.” Luffy exclaimed this, withdrawing both arms and holding up his hands apologetically. “Sorry!”

“No big,” Sanji replied.

“Is that food?” Luffy predictably peered into the bags the chef had brought up with him. “What did you bring?”

“Salads and dessert,” Sanji answered; and at Luffy’s less-than enthusiastic face added, “And some chicken and lamb to cook on the barbecue.”

“Ahhh, cool!” Luffy beamed at him. “Can I help?”

“Absolutely not.” Sanji evidently had no trouble holding this particular boundary.

“Okay, then I can light the barbecue.” Zoro could see Luffy was determined to engineer fire into his evening, one way or another.

“Fine.” The chef conceded this with a nod. “Good idea. Go light it now: it’ll take a while before it’s ready for cooking on.”

“On it!” Luffy gave him a double thumbs up, before turning on his heel and marching across the rooftop to where they’d set up the grill earlier in the evening. “Hey, Ace! Sanji wants me to light this thing. Gimme some kerosene.”

 

 

“Don’t use that! You want what we eat to wind up tasting like petrochemical products?” Sanji directed this warning at Luffy’s retreating back.

“Give it up, cook.” Zoro gave a half-shake of his head.

The chef looked at him. “Put that friend of yours on a leash.”

Taking a swig of his beer, Zoro smirked. “Remember what I said last night?”

An expression that was momentarily complicated passed its way across Sanji’s face. “Which part?”

“About me taking zero responsibility for Luffy’s fuckery?”

“Oh... Yeah.”

 

 

Too late, Zoro realised where else Sanji’s mind might have gone. And he mentally kicked himself.

_Dumbass. Don’t bring all that fucking stuff up again._

He tried to salvage things by pursuing the tactic of distraction. “You want a drink?”

“Absolutely.” Sanji seemed to relax slightly.

“Beer? Something stronger?” Zoro wasn’t sure what everyone had contributed to the improvised bar, but there looked to be a good selection of bottles ranged along the wide plank propped up on crates.

“I better not hit the spirits. Not while I’m still taking those damn anti-inflammatories.” Sanji raised an eyebrow. “Okay; beer, then.”

 

 

As Zoro headed towards the alcohol zone, Usopp pushed his headphones back off his ears and hailed him. “Yo, the DJ is dry! Hook a brother up.”

Zoro picked up two beers and flicked off their caps, before walking back and handing them to Usopp and Sanji. Instead of looking grateful, the chef glared at him. “It’s like you have no fucking manners whatsoever.”

“Huh?”

Sanji gestured at Nami. “You go and bring back drinks without asking _the only lady present_ what she’d like?”

Zoro looked at Nami. Who was smirking. And holding what looked like a half-empty glass of some kind of alcoholic concoction. “She’s got a drink.”

“Then you still ask her if she’d like you to freshen her glass, asshole.” Sanj facepalmed, before turning to the redhead and declaiming, “Please excuse this moron’s lack of manners. I’m doing my best to work on them, but I’m working with limited material.”

 

 

Nami chuckled. “No problem.” Her eyes flicked mischievously up to meet Zoro’s. “The night’s young. I’m sure there’ll be more opportunities for us to get some serious drinking in.”

Zoro was still smarting from the _limited material_ comment. “Yeah... Think you and me might have some different takes on what serious drinking actually entails.”

“Whoooah...” Usopp shook one hand vigorously in the air. “Hearing _that_ gauntlet being thrown down, oh yeah.”

Nami leaned both elbows on her knees, folding her hands together and resting her chin on them. She gazed up at Zoro demurely. “Think you can out-drink me? Hmm... Amusing.”

“Yeah, right.” Zoro snorted.

“Care to put your money where your mouth is?” A mercenary glint flashed in Nami’s eyes.

“What, now?” Zoro gave her a dangerous grin.

 

 

Sanji looked from his friend to his boyfriend. “Okay, enough! You two are not doing this.” He rounded on Zoro. “Stop with this bullshit.”

“She started it,” Zoro pointed out.

“That defence doesn’t even work when you’re a five year-old, craphead!” Sanji poked him in the chest with a forefinger. “Behave yourself. _No-one_ is having a drinking contest.”

“It’ll be fun,” commented Nami cheerfully.

“For you, maybe.” Sanji gave her a look. “I’m the one’ll have to carry this fuckwit down the stairs after he passes out cold trying to keep pace with you.”

“Standing right fucking here,” Zoro interjected, annoyed by the revelation that the chef wasn’t trying to stop this because he thought Nami was going to lose. “And no _way_ am I gonna be the one on the losing end of this deal.”

“There is no deal! How many times do I have to say this? There will be no drinking contest.” protested Sanji.

“Drinking contest, cool!” Luffy was suddenly there in the mix. “Great idea! Who’s in?”

“And so it begins,” Usopp intoned solemnly. “I count myself privileged to be present on this legendary occasion, when these major contenders in the field of alcohol consumption are pitted against one another, in brutal combat... The victor to be the last one standing, the slayer of bottles renowned in song and story...”

“What have we got for a kick-off?” Luffy was already inspecting the bar. “Okay, whiskey, tequila, vodka...”

 

 

“Keep your thieving paws off my Blue Ice, you little shit-stirrer.” Ace appeared, slinging an arm round Luffy’s neck and dragging him backwards. “Did I hear the words ‘drinking contest’ uttered in an unironic fashion?”

“Zoro and Nami are up,” Usopp announced.

“And me!” Luffy insisted.

“Well, I guess this evening wouldn’t be complete without you getting totally shitfaced.” Ace pushed his hat up slightly with the tip of one finger, and smiled across at Zoro. “Can anyone play?”

“Hell yeah.” Zoro gave Nami a challenging smile. “If you’re down with that.”

Rubbing her hands together slowly, she returned the smile with one like a predator. “Bring it on.”

 

 

“Okay, just wait a fucking minute!” Sanji held up both hands. “If you lunatics are determined on this, at least wait till later on before you get caned. There’s food to cook and be eaten, and am I the only one here who thinks stupid amounts of alcohol plus fire juggling will not end well?”

“He has a point.” Marco, who had stayed on the sidelines of the escalating debate, contributed this one. “Remember Burning Man, last summer?”

“Not very clearly,” Ace admitted.

“If you idiots want to destroy your livers, then fine: you’re all consenting alleged adults.” Sanji folded his arms. “But at least wait till the fire-related activities are over with, so you don’t all wind up in an E.R. explaining how you got third degree burns.”

 

 

“Um... Hello?” An apologetic voice reached them from the rooftop access door. “Has someone had an accident?”

Everyone turned their attention towards the speaker. Who turned out to be Chopper: standing in the doorway holding a brown paper bag against his chest and regarding them all with slight apprehension.

Sanji was the first person to react. “Chopper! Hi, c’mon in – great that you made it.” He walked towards the younger man, giving him a big smile. “You found this place okay, then?”

“I knocked on the apartment door, but no-one answered.” Chopper let himself be ushered forward by the chef, smiling somewhat nervously. “There was a note on the door that just said, _COME ON UP TO THE ROOF._ ”

 

 

“I put that there!” exclaimed Luffy. “Didja like my drawing?”

“Um. It was very colourful,” Chopper replied diplomatically.

“I’m Luffy. You’re Zoro and Sanji’s friend, right?” Luffy gave Chopper his full-octane grin.

“Well, I only met them last week - ”

“Cool! Sanji said you’re a doctor. Do you ever get to see dead bodies?”

Chopper blinked. “Uh, I try to prevent that happening whenever possible.”

“Have you brought your doctor bag with you? Can I try out your stethoscope?”

 

 

Zoro saw the young doctor’s eyes find him and Sanji, growing wide. The swordsman recognised the signs of someone suffering their first experience of Luffy Overload.

He let out a grunt, cuffing his irrepressible roommate lightly across the back of the head. “Oi, shithead: you want to at least offer your guest a beer before you hit him up for a free consultation?”

“Oh sure – sorry.” Luffy captured Chopper’s arm and dragged him towards the bar. “Okay, there’s beer. You like beer? Or there’s whiskey, or tequila. The vodka is Ace’s. He’s my brother, right over there. The guy next to him is Marco, his boyfriend. We’re doing a fireshow together later, it’s gonna be awesome.”

 

 

As Chopper was hurtled into the deep end of Luffy’s social circle, the party was suddenly under way. Usopp hit play on his sound system and sat next to Nami, having evidently done enough technical wizardry and playlist preparation to ensure that he could leave it to do its thing. Marco and Ace got into conversation with Chopper, with Luffy acting his usual role of being the force that pulled people together. Zoro watched it happening with a slight smile. Remembering how that had once happened to him.

“Well, that seemed to go okay.” Sanji came to stand beside him, also watching Chopper’s indoctrination.

“Yeah... Luffy’ll take care of him. He’s good at looking after waifs and strays.”

The chef let out a snort. “I’m not sure Chopper falls into either of those categories. But yeah: I’m glad he turned up. I was wondering if he’d back out.”

“Think he was kinda spun, at first.”

“Unsurprisingly. Luffy redefines the word _overwhelming_.”

“I was thinking more about you talking about liver damage and third degree burns, shit cook.”

 

 

“Fuckwit.” The chef thumped him on the arm. “Don’t blame me. You’re the one agreed to taking part in some half-assed drinking contest.”

“Nami’s the one suggested it. How come you’re not ragging on her?”

“Because Nami is a sweet-hearted vision of gorgeousness. And you’re a mannerless moss-brain with zero social graces.” Sanji proclaimed this smugly.

“Good thing it wasn’t my social graces got us together in the first place then, huh.”

 

 

The chef’s eyes met his. For a moment Sanji looked like he was going to say something: then didn’t.

Zoro wondered what it would have been. Instead, after a few seconds the chef spoke again. “I must have been attracted by your animal magnetism.” He took a small sip of beer. “Or some shit like that.”

“Yeah?” Zoro held the chef’s gaze. Not entirely sure why he thought so, but seeing something different there. Something that was new.

There was another small pause. Then Sanji said, “It’s weird. Thinking back to that. New Year’s.”

“How come?”

“It’s only a few months ago... But it seems like longer than that.” The chef was still looking at him, but Zoro couldn’t read his face.

 

 

The swordsman gave a half-smile, though he wasn’t sure where this was going. “That a good thing?”

“Yeah. I think so.” Sanji’s brows pulled together a little. “Don’t you?”

 _Absolutely,_ Zoro wanted to say. Because the last few months had grown into something more good, more real, than anything he’d had in his life for a long time. Because after the fear he’d felt last night, that by telling Sanji about his own dark history he could lose this... He knew now just how much it meant.

But Zoro wasn’t sure he could put that into words. “Yeah.”

Sanji regarded him for a moment longer... Then a small smile came onto his own face. As if he’d understood something more than Zoro had said out loud. “I’m glad I’m here now. With you.”

 

 

An echo from the night before resonated in Zoro’s mind. Of what Sanji had said to him.

_\- I’m glad you were strong enough to make it through all that shit._

 

 

Once again, Zoro wanted to give an answer that would reflect what he knew he was feeling. But once again, what came out sounded inadequate. “Me too.”

This time the chef’s smile grew. And he slid his arm around Zoro’s shoulders, before pulling the swordsman’s head close and kissing him as hard and as long as Zoro had done in the kitchen earlier. Warm mouth claiming his own: the chef’s fingers curling round the back of his neck. Zoro leaned into it and let go of worrying about finding the words, how to say what he couldn’t say. Let himself show it, instead.

They got lost in it. Until after a while the sound of hooting and clapping broke through: and they drew apart to see they’d become the object of general approval.

“Smoking hot,” crowed Nami, grinning.

“Definitely R-rated,” chipped in Usopp, also with a wide grin.

 

 

Zoro saw the chef’s face flush, for the second time that evening; although he was smiling too. “Voyeurs. Don’t you people have anything better to do than gawk at other people’s personal lives?”

“Not just gawk at, but also record for posterity.” Nami held up her phone and waggled it provocatively. “That photo is _so_ going on my Instagram feed.”

“Don’t you dare,” Sanji warned her.

Nami stuck her tongue out at him. “Hashtag: cute-guys-kissing. I’ll bet I get a hundred new followers.”

Ace wandered over, digging his own phone out of his pocket. “I’ll be your first one. What’s your name on there?”

“Tangerinequeen. What’s yours?”

“Fyrefist. With a y.” Ace was already leaning over to look at her phone screen. “Heh... That photo is gonna be my new wallpaper.”

“I got video of it, too.” Nami prodded the screen.

 

 

“Please don’t...” Sanji was red to the ears now. “Nami, I’ll be your personal chef for a month if you delete those images.”

“Too late!” she chorused cheerfully, typing onscreen; before holding the phone up to show her Instagram feed. “Feel the love.”

Zoro laughed, at which the chef rounded on him. “Why do you think this is funny?”

“This isn’t, shit cook – you are.”

“Bastard.” Sanji stalked over and sat on a chair next to Usopp, who was regarding him sympathetically. “I’ve been violated.”

“Yeah, dude. The internet is a hive of deviants. I feel for you.” Usopp patted him soothingly on the shoulder.

“...Not helping.”

“Suck it up, swirly.” Zoro gave the chef another mocking grin.

Sanji scowled at him. “I’m gonna make you suffer for this.”

“Oh my god, please tell me you’ll get some of _that_ on video.” Ace slid behind the chef and draped one arm around his shoulders, smirking up at Zoro as he did so.

 

 

For just a moment, Zoro felt a little fiery stab of possessiveness.

 

 

Sanji turned his head to look at the fire juggler. His face still held a slight flush, but he gave Ace an uncooperative look. “Go get your kicks on NakedSword if you want free porn, craphead.”

Ace raised one eyebrow, turning his smile lasciviously onto the chef. “I prefer ManOnEdge myself. Vanilla really isn’t my favourite flavour.”

“Figures.” Sanji let out a snort, before extricating himself and standing up in one smooth movement. “Has Luffy lit that fucking barbecue yet?”

Ace didn’t appear to be put out by the rebuff. “If not, just let me know: I can help light your fire.”

Sanji merely rolled his eyes at this, before turning on his heel and striding away across the roof. Ace watched him go, a considering expression on his face... Then his gaze switched to meet Zoro’s. One corner of his mouth hiked up again. “...Just kidding.”

Zoro gave him a level look. “I can hurt you.”

“Flirt.”

The swordsman let out a snort. “I’m gonna get another beer.”

 

 

 

 

 

The barbecue got lit: while waiting for the coals to heat, Sanji set out his cooking tools and got the chicken and lamb ready to go on the grill, while the others produced chips and dips and made inroads into the improvised bar.

Once he was cooking, the chef relaxed still more. Usopp’s playlist made a funky backing track: the sounds of friends talking and laughing ebbed and flowed through the music. Chopper drifted over to the barbecue and talked with Sanji for a while, evidently seeking out the reassurance of someone he knew a little better... But when Luffy bounced over and persuaded the young doctor to be an audience for him and Usopp busting some street dancing moves, Chopper meekly let himself be swept up in this new orbit. He even looked like he was kind of enjoying it.

 

 

Sanji cooked the chicken and lamb, keeping a careful eye on his timings while he grilled the quicker-to-cook burgers and sausages that others had brought along. When everything was done he arrayed the barbecued meats on a couple of platters, before signalling chow time by clanging on a metal tray with a barbecue fork.

Everyone fell to. And for a while the only sounds were noises of appreciation, interspersed for requests to be passed more of something.

“Holy cow... Or should I say, holy chicken.” Ace relishingly licked sweet chilli sauce and chicken juices off his hands, one finger at a time. “I’d ask you what you did to the meat to make it this tender, but I’m worried it involves satanic magic rituals.”

“Yeah, devilish arts.” Sanji was enjoying seeing people enjoying his food. “If you recite my marinade recipe backwards, it summons the Dark Lord.”

 

 

“Is there any more of that lamb?” Nami looked around.

“Plenty, my sweet. Allow me.” Sanji rose and fetched the platter of remaining kebabs, and flourishingly served one onto Nami’s held out plate.

“Oh yeah, I’ll go for more of that too...” Usopp waved a hand.

“And me!” Luffy was quicker. “And more chicken. And another burger.”

“Then get it yourself, craphead.” Sanji plonked the dish on a crate doing duty as a table, in the midst of everybody. Even before he’d sat down again, there was an immediate scrum as Luffy and Usopp pounced.

“Feeding time at the zoo,” commented Ace, leaning back comfortably into Marco who was sitting behind him. “Wow... I am _wedged_.”

“Good thing we’re gonna work it off soon,” Marco said with a slight smile.

“Mm, yeah. But let’s allow some time for a little post-oral satisfaction.”

“Whatever you say, babe.” Marco captured one of Ace’s hands and raised to his lips, giving it a kiss... Then teasingly biting a finger.

 

 

Zoro watched the couple, cradling his beer bottle in his lap. He and Sanji were relaxing in a similar position: the chef sitting on the rooftop leaning back against one end of Usopp’s music desk, padded by a large cushion; Zoro sitting beside him, their shoulders just resting against each other. Sanji had moved there so he could give his back some support; but Zoro was aware now of how good it felt to have contact with the other man. Their shoulders and thighs touching: slight pressure, warmth.

 He felt the chef stir slightly, adjusting position. Zoro looked at him. “You want more space?”

“No. I’m good.” Sanji settled his shoulder back against the swordsman, and let out a sigh. “Eh... You had enough to eat?”

“Yeah. Thanks... It was great.”

“I still can’t believe how much Luffy eats.” Sanji was regarding the way Usopp and Luffy were duelling now for possession of the last chicken leg. “He must have a crazy metabolism.”

“Goes with his crazy brain.”

“Uh huh.” Sanji let out a breath of laughter. “Not that his big brother’s much better.”

“Ace is okay. He talks a lot of shit, but he’s not as flaky as he makes out.”

“How long’ve he and Marco been together?”

 

 

“Over a year.” Zoro was struck by the coincidence, of the fact that he’d asked Ace that same question himself earlier that evening.

“So they’re like, a serious couple?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Zoro looked across at Ace and Marco now: the younger man had his head tipped back, saying something to Marco with a smile. “They both seem to think so, anyway.”

“Are they really into... poly?”

The swordsman turned his attention back onto his boyfriend. “Why’d you want to know?”

Sanji gave him a smirk. “You were the one who suggested a four-way.”

“Only to see the look on your face.”

“Cockblocker.” Sanji raised his eyebrows.

 

 

Letting his hand rest on the chef’s knee, Zoro slid it slowly upwards. “You getting bored of this already? Maybe we should do something about that.”

Sanji’s hand closed over the swordsman’s, trapping it against his thigh to stop its ascent. “Being featured on Instagram once already tonight not enough for you?”

Zoro gave a low laugh. “No-one’s looking.”

“The only pair putting on a show up here on this roof tonight are Ace and Marco.” The chef curled his fingers round the swordsman’s... Before firmly lifting his boyfriend’s hand away. “Later.” With that, Sanji raised his voice, addressing the general throng. “Okay! Who’s for chocolate brownies?”

 

 

 

 

 

A little while later, Ace extended both his arms upwards in a luxurious stretch, before remarking to his boyfriend, “Well... If we’re gonna do this thing, guess we should do it before I get too comfortable to move.”

For an answer Marco got smoothly to his feet, before extending a hand downwards. Ace took it with a smile, letting himself be pulled up to standing. With his other hand he removed his hat and plonked it atop Luffy’s head, before raising his voice. “Hey, Usopp! You wanna cue up our music?”

“You two are gonna do your show now? Sweeet.” Usopp nodded, pushing himself up out of where he’d been ensconced crosslegged on a cushion between Nami and Chopper, and headed for his music desk.

“I’m looking forward to this,” said Nami, a pleasurable smile of anticipation on her face. She nudged Sanji with an elbow. “How ‘bout you?”

 

 

The chef nodded. “Yeah. I’m kind of intrigued to see it.”

“Intrigued?” Nami regarded him, and her smile deepened. “Yeah. Of _course_ you are.” She spoke a little louder, calling over to the two fire performers. “Is it okay for me to film this?”

“Usopp’s got his phone set up already.” Ace gestured towards where the artist’s phone was standing on a small tripod, in front of the space along one side of the rooftop that they’d left clear for the fire performance.

“Oh, cool.” Nami looked at Usopp. “Share the video with me afterwards?”

“I’ll post it on my Vimeo account, and send all you guys the link,” Usopp responded.

 

 

Ace and Marco moved over to where their fireshow gear lay on the rooftop, and began checking it. Everyone else repositioned chairs or cushion seats to ensure that they had a good view.

Lighting a cigarette, Sanji glanced at Zoro who was now sitting on a crate next to the chef’s chair. “Have you seen them do their fireshow before?”

“A few times.” Zoro nodded.

“I guess they’re pretty good.”

Zoro gave him a sidelong smile. “See what you think.”

 

 

Ace and Marco had set out their props in various places: now both performers stepped to the side and stripped off their shirts, so that they were wearing only snugly-fitting black trousers and boots.

“I’m liking this already,” Nami commented.

“Nice ink.” Sanji regarded the intricate Celtic knotwork tattoo that covered most of Marco’s chest: a crescent moon interlinked with a cross.

Ace turned around to check something behind him, revealing that he had a similar tattoo on his back: also in Celtic style, but with the addition of a skull to the cross and crescent moon.

“Did they get those done together?” Sanji asked Zoro.

“Yeah... Friend of Marco’s is a tatt artist. They got them done for Burning Man last year.”

 

 

Ace spoke quietly to Marco; then returned to the front of the performance space, and gave their audience a smile. “Eager onlookers... Phoenix and Firefist are ready to begin. A few brief safety announcements: please remain seated at all times, unless you see something yellow and flamey approaching at speed, in which case get the hell outta the way. If a piece of fireshow apparatus should land near you, on no account try to pick it up: leave it to the trained professionals.”

Behind him, Marco let out a snort. Ace continued regardless. “Buckets of water and a fire extinguisher are situated here, and here.” Ace indicated their safety precautions. “Audience participation is strictly prohibited: that fucking means _you_ , Luffy.”

“Awwww...” Luffy groaned.

“One last question for you all... Which version of our fireshow do you want us to give you: family-friendly, or NSFW?”

“What do you think!” Nami called out in response.

Ace gave his slow, disreputable grin. “So be it. Hardcore it is.” He backed away, to the edge of the performance space. “Hit it, Usopp.”

 

 

Over at his laptop Usopp hit play, before hastily taking his seat with everyone else.

There was a long moment of quiet: Marco walked to the centre of the space, carrying a long fire staff which he’d lit while Ace had been talking. Music began to play, a rhythm guitar repeating a sequence of chords as Marco laid his burning fire staff on the ground. Then suddenly the tall man placed his palms flat on the ground – and lifted up into a perfect and graceful handstand. He held it for a long moment, his body still and straight; then gradually arced his head towards the audience. Ace walked in front of him: hooked the toe of one boot under the centre of the burning staff – and flicked it up to land on the back of Marco’s neck, perfectly in synch with the vocals on the music track coming in.

 

 

_‘Touched / You say that I am too  
So much / Of what you say is true.’_

Marco dropped his feet down to the rooftop, somehow twisting his body as he came to his feet in such a way that the staff began to spin around his neck. He spun with it, pirouetting slowly, using the momentum of his body and the movement of his shoulders to send the fire staff arcing, circling, twisting around him. Bringing it over one arm, under the other; sweeping it as far as it could go to one side and bringing it to a halt: reversing direction of himself and the staff, reviving its oscillating dance again. Always keeping it in contact with his body, his arms, his hands.

 

 

_‘I’ll never find / Someone quite like you again  
I’ll never find / Someone quite like you, like you.’_

 

 

Sanji almost forgot to breathe. His eyes followed Marco’s form as the tall man danced with the fire: as if it was his partner, a living thing. Supporting it on the curve of his arm; coaxing it around his body; tilting his head back as it kissed its way round his neck. Eyes half-closed, as if he was in a trance. Man circling fire, fire circling man. A Sufi dance of light and dark.

 

 

The music suddenly took on a harsher note: a woman’s voice coming in with wild close harmonies, wordless with mourning or ecstasy. Marco bent down and picked up a second fire staff from the rooftop, lighting it with the first; then he was dancing with them both.

The dance picked up pace, the staffs flickering around Marco’s wrists and arms and shoulders. Sometimes both seeming to work together in harmony; sometimes splitting apart as if duelling for possession of the man at their centre. And as the music grew harder-edged and pushed its tempo faster still, Marco seemed to be caught up by it: as if he was being pulled into the fire that span and flickered around him.

 

_‘I'll never find / Someone quite as touched as you  
I'll never love / Someone quite the way that I loved you.’_

 

 

The music rose to a crescendo, Marco outlined by the spinning flames. Then suddenly cut down to a haunting sound of pipes, a lonely keening, as the fire performer turned one final time and slowed, the staffs slowing with him. Still letting them move, sweeping a last few dying arcs around his body... Until the music ended and Marco was still. His head slowly tilted back, eyes closing: his hands holding the fire staffs, crossed high above him.

 

 

There were a few seconds of silence... Then a chorus of cheering and whistling broke out, led by Nami and Usopp.

Marco opened his eyes, lowering the still-flickering fire staffs. Ace stepped in from the edge of the space, and gave his partner an appreciative smile... Before Marco turned away to douse his props and to pick up new ones, Ace following suit.

To Sanji’s surprise, when both performers turned around this time they had donned welder’s goggles... And were carrying two shorter fire staffs each.

The music kicked in, and this time Sanji recognised the Prodigy track.

_‘I’m the trouble starter / Punkin’ instigator.’_

Usopp leaned over and spoke in Sanji’s ear. “Yeah - Ace said it’s practically compulsory to include this track somewhere in a fireshow routine.”

“I can imagine,” Sanji replied. Although really, _Firestarter_ suited the mood of this perfectly. Ace and Marco looked a lot more menacing with their eyes concealed behind the circles of smoked glass, walking a couple of steps forward and regarding at their audience with impassive expressions. And then it became obvious that the goggles were probably not just for show, because both men simultaneously turned their heads slightly to the side and let rip with a massive double burst of firebreathing, flames roiling upwards with a roar and wave of heat.

“Holy _fuck_.” Sanji almost dropped his cigarette.

 

 

Having set the tone, Marco and Ace set out to prove just how fucking crazy they were. Juggling their fire staffs – bigger than ordinary fire juggling clubs – both independently and together, moving around and past each other with apparently scant regard for each other’s safety. Sometimes moving in unison; sometimes as if they were fighting, vying for space and supremacy.

The whole thing passed a lot more quickly than Marco’s solo piece, largely because both performers hit a frenetic pace early on and sustained it till the finish. At the end they stepped forward and bowed, then took off their goggles and grinned: while their onlookers applauded and cheered hard, for the effort as much as for the skill.

 

 

For the third section of the performance it was Marco’s turn to step aside, leaving Ace in possession of the space. The dark-haired man stretched both arms up and then shook them out, apparently needing to loosen up a little after his previous exertions. Then with a quick smile at his audience, he reached down and picked up two fire poi on chains; lit them.

Chemical Brothers’ _Out Of Control_ began to pulse, and as it did so Ace began to swing the flaming poi. Slowly picking up speed: using the rhythm of the music to sway his body, arms swinging. Pulling the poi into faster and faster orbits, circling close around him then at arms’ length. Turning on the spot and using that movement to add speed too.

The previous routine had obviously made the fire performer work up a sweat. The flames he was dancing with gleamed off his skin, gilding Ace as if he was glowing from the inside out. And like Marco had done at the beginning, the younger man moved with the fluid grace of a dancer. Each flash and flicker of the arcs of flame painting his body with chiaroscuro, face and moving muscles sculpted with light.

 

 

And then the music kicked up a gear and unbelievably Ace did too: as if what he’d been doing before had been slow motion. Suddenly whirling himself and bringing the poi with him into a blur of fire and shadow, comets hurtling through space.

Marco moved in to stand behind his partner, bearing his own set of poi: then used them to launch another massive flare of fire breathing, before bringing himself into the routine. So that now there were two of them, moving in synch. Bodies moving closer, touching. Burning up together.

 

 

_‘All the time / I should be there with you  
But maybe / I'm just searching for the truth.’ _

 

 

Ace slowed slightly as Marco came to stand in front of him; their poi still spinning, arms outstretched to either side. Ace’s head arching back as his partner bent his mouth and ran his tongue in a slow line over Ace’s body, from chest to throat.

“Oh my _god_.” Nami sounded like she was having trouble maintaining the no-audience-participation rule.

 

 

_‘And it always seems / We're running out of time  
We're out of control / Out of control.’_

 

 

The pair of fire performers turned around each other then were moving again, poi accelerating back into fiery circles, spinning fractals one behind the other: Ace at the front with Marco behind. A many-armed deity of heat and light.

The track beat its way to the end. And as the last notes pulsed and died, both Ace and Marco let their poi slow and sway to a stop. Then both men were standing stock still; the only movement the flicker of the flames.

 

 

 There was a frozen silence. Then an explosion of approval from the onlookers.

“Awesome!” Usopp gave the pair a double thumbs up.

“You guys rocked!” Luffy bounded over to grab one of the still-burning fire poi, only to get a warning glare from Ace.

“Wow – that was really something.” Chopper sounded mildly stunned.

“Usopp, make sure you get that video posted straight away. I need to watch it. Frequently.” Nami let out a sigh.

 

 

Sanji blinked; lifted his cigarette to his mouth. And found that it had gone out. “...Holy fuck.”

Zoro let out a low laugh beside him. “So, cook... Think they’re any good?”

The chef was glad it was dark, because he suspected he was blushing for the third time that evening. “Is there any way I can answer that without incriminating myself?”

 

 

Once Marco and Ace had cleared their fire kit away – to the accompaniment of Luffy’s protests – and put their shirts back on, Nami announced to the general group: “Okay... This feels seriously anticlimactic after that display, but we still have a drinking contest to get through.”

Usopp groaned; Luffy cheered. Sanji looked at his friend. “Are you really going to do this?”

“When have you ever known me back down?” Nami replied, giving him a challenging smile.

The chef gave up. “Fine.” He cast his gaze over everyone. “Well, it’s been nice knowing you all. Any of you got any last requests?”

Zoro seemed totally unconcerned. “How we gonna do this?” He indicated the remains of the bar with his thumb. “Shots?”

 

 

Nami got a glint in her eye. She reached under her chair and took out a bag that was still stashed under there: producing from it a bottle roughly the size and shape of a litre of whiskey. It was full of a clearish liquid the colour of weak tea, and bore a label that was covered with indecipherable script and a picture of a palm tree. “My clients are usually just high maintenance assholes with too much money to know what to do with... But occasionally, I get ones who know how to be nice human beings.” She waggled the bottle at them. “Present from a couple I fixed up a honeymoon tour for, in Thailand.”

Ace took the bottle from her and inspected the label. “This looks like someone drew it by hand.”

“Homemade, in _every_ sense.” Nami nodded.

“What is that stuff?” Sanji had a bad feeling about this.

“ _Lao theuan_. Which roughly translates as ‘jungle juice’. Basically, Thai moonshine.” Nami smirked. “Which can be up to ninety per cent proof.”

 

 

This time almost everyone groaned. “You’re kidding!” This from Usopp. “That’s, like... Brain trauma territory.”

“Woo hoo hoo!” Luffy eagerly took the bottle from Ace. “This is gonna be _epic_.”

“Wait just a goddamn minute!” Sanji interposed in this game of pass-the-alcoholic-poisoning-parcel, wresting the bottle of liquor of the younger man and holding it away from him at arm’s length. “You guys are going to be puking over the edge of the roof if you try chugging back this rotgut! This is batshit crazy.”

“We’ll be fine.” Nami gave him a full-charm-offensive smile, and crooked a beckoning forefinger. “Give me the bottle, hon.”

Sanji wavered, torn between his sense of caution and his habitual inability to resist giving in to anything Nami wanted. She saw this in his face, and pressed home her advantage. “Look, how about we make it a time limit contest? Speed rather than quantity?”

“Like, first one to down their row of shots wins?” Ace nodded. “Good plan.”

 

 

Sanji looked at his redheaded friend. “You’re going to do this whatever I say, aren’t you?”

“Mm hm.” She beckoned with her finger again. “Hand it over.”

Reluctantly, Sanji yielded the bottle to her. “I still think this is not going to end well.”

“Relax, sweetie.” Nami was already twisting off the cap of the bottle. “Ace: grab some cups.”

There was a catering pack of small plastic glasses on the bar, which Ace swiftly fetched. “How many shots are we going for?”

“Depends how many are playing,” Nami replied, casting her eye around.

“I’m in.” Zoro got in before anyone else.

“Me too!” Luffy was only a split second later.

“Okay: Zoro, Luffy, Nami, me...” Ace began dealing out plastic cups like a poker player. He gave Marco a look, but the taller man simply shook his head. Ace looked pointedly at Usopp next, who let out another groan. “I know I’m gonna regret this, but yeah: deal me in.”

 

 

Chopper said slightly apprehensively, “Uh, I think I’ll just watch. Not to be a killjoy or anything, but...”

“Chopper: you, me and Marco are the only non-lunatics here,” Sanji assured him. “And we’re also gonna be the only ones standing upright and saying smugly, _I told you so,_ by the end of this night.”

Zoro let out a snort. “Not everyone’s a total lightweight like you, shit cook.”

The chef gave him the finger. “I’ll remind you of that when you wake up tomorrow with a chunk of your short term memory missing.”

 

 

“Okay, so that’s five of us.” Nami tilted the bottle in her hand so that the pale golden liquor inside sloshed, assessing its volume. “Three shots apiece?”

“If you make ‘em big ones.” Zoro, sounding like he was determined to up the ante.

“You got it.” Nami gave a cat-like smile... Before methodically tipping a good inch of liquor into the three plastic cups Ace had now arranged in front of each of the five taking part.

“Whoa, really?” Usopp protested. “Those are, like, triples!”

“That one’s got less than the others.” Luffy inspected his trio of shots critically, bringing his head down to glass level.

“Levelling up.” Nami fixed this, then held the bottle of _lao theuan_ up to check it. “Ah, there’s only a drop left... Might as well finish it.” She went round everyone’s cups, topping up until she’d done as she’d stated.

 

 

Sanji took the empty bottle from her, and gave the top an experimental sniff. A powerful hit of raw alcohol flooded his nose, with thick undertones of something sweetish. “Ugh. What is this stuff even made from? Can anyone here read Thai?”

“I Googled it.” Nami had picked up one of her cups, and was also giving it an experimental sniff. “Sugar, rice and coconut milk.”

“And methanol, by the smell of it.” Sanji looked at Zoro. “You’re going to hate this. It’s sweet.”

Zoro looked amused. “At ninety per cent proof? Taste really isn’t gonna be an issue.”

 

 

“Okay, rules.” Nami looked around everyone. “Marco: you’ll be timekeeper. Countdown from three: on zero, we start drinking. First person to sink all three shots and have swallowed the last one wins.”

“How do we tell that?” Ace queried.

Nami thought for a moment. “When you’ve swallowed your last shot, you have to shout ‘ _Mòt gâew!’_ _”_

“Meaning?” inquired the fire juggler.

“Thai for ‘Sink your drink.’ Or something like that.” Nami nodded. “Okay, we good to go?”

Everyone picked up their first glass, sitting in various poses of readiness: Luffy with his only a couple of inches from his mouth; Usopp holding his with an expression that suggested he was already regretting this.

Marco lifted a hand. “Three. Two. One.”

Nami and Zoro had locked gazes with each other, Sanji noticed.

“ _Zero_.” Marco’s hand fell, and simultaneously everyone else’s lifted.

 

 

The first shot obviously had the advantage of being an unknown quantity, experience-wise. But as each drinker knocked it back and slammed their empty cups down, it was entertaining to see how each reacted.

Usopp croaked and clutched his throat. Ace had scrunched one eye shut. Luffy hiccupped in a mouthful of air, then laughed.

Nami and Zoro both simply reached swiftly for their next drink.

 

 

This time it was clear that the two dedicated drinkers were going to be out in front. Usopp seemed to be having trouble getting his second shot down at all; while Ace had now shut both eyes, either because he hoped this would help or because he just didn’t want to see what he was doing.

The _clunk!_ of Nami and Zoro setting down their second empties made Luffy hurry to try to catch up... Which merely resulted in him choking and treating everyone to a coughed-out spray of alcohol.

Going into their third drink, the swordsman and the redhead seemed to be neck and neck. Their drained cups hit the table in unison. Nami opened her mouth and cried, “ _Mòt gâew!”_ – while Zoro’s attempt to do the same evidently resulted in his last mouthful of _lao theuan_ going down his windpipe. His face went red and he coughed, even more explosively than Luffy had done.

 

 

“I win!” Nami crowed, holding up her empty glass.

Usopp abandoned his unfinished second cup, with obvious relief. “You guys are _insane_.”

“Hah...” Luffy pointed at Zoro, with a wide grin. “She whupped your ass, Zoro!”

Still fighting to get a breath, eyes watering, Zoro gave his friend a scowl. “...Bite me.” Then coughed again.

Ace fanned his mouth. “My tongue has gone numb. Is it meant to do that?”

“Normally at this point, I would be saying: ‘Pay up, suckers.’ ” Nami smirked at them. “But I felt like being kind, so you each just owe me a drink of my choice, the next time we’re out somewhere together.”

 

 

Sanji leaned over and patted the still-coughing Zoro patronisingly between the shoulder blades. “Want me to get you a drink of water, moss-head?”

“...Drop... dead... curly-brow...”

Sanji snickered. “ _Now_ who’s the lightweight?”

“I never thought I’d live to see this moment,” Usopp announced, grinning at Nami. “The first time I saw someone out-drink Zoro. You are a total goddess.”

“Thank you.” Nami accepted this as though it was simply her dues. “Now: someone get me another drink quick, so I can wash this godawful taste out of my mouth.”

 

 

 

 

 

The recovering drinking contestants followed Nami’s example, and the party lapsed back into talking while Usopp restarted his sound system.

Sanji talked to Chopper for a while, swapping Italian recipes. Then the doctor got pulled into a conversation between Nami and Usopp, about internet dating: which Sanji couldn’t help thinking, was probably the least likely topic for Chopper to show an interest in.

Zoro was sat between Luffy and Marco, apparently sufficiently recovered from inhaling ninety per cent proof liquor to sink another beer and follow whatever crazy story Luffy was now relating with a lot of wild hand gestures. As Sanji watched, the swordsman’s face broke into a smile, evidently at something Luffy had said.

 

 

Sanji felt a little clutch of something in his chest. Not bad: the opposite. Seeing Zoro happy. Unaware he was being watched; losing the serious expression, or even frown, that the swordsman all too often wore. He looked relaxed... Which might have a little to do with how much he’d drunk, but it was more than that. The chef could see how Zoro fitted in, with these people, his friends. How they cared about him. Valued him. Wanted to share their lives with him.

Which was how Sanji himself felt. And that hadn’t changed, since the conversation he and the swordsman had had last night.

 

 

_Don’t think about that now._

Sanji shook his head, as if physically trying to dislodge the thoughts. Not wanting to lose how good he felt.

“This seat taken?” Ace appeared beside him, holding a beer and favouring the chef with one of his come-hither smiles.

Sanji looked up at him, then gestured at the empty crate beside him. “Be my guest.”

 

 

The fire juggler sat down. “Having a good time?”

“Yeah.” Sanji returned his smile. “It’s a good party.”

“Only, the reason I ask is: just then you were looking way too serious for someone having a good-party experience.” Ace was still smiling, but his dark eyes held the chef’s.

“Was I?” Sanji gave a half-shake of his head. “Guess I was just elsewhere for a moment.”

“You didn’t look elsewhere. You looked like you were very much here.” Ace’s gaze shifted across the rooftop, to where Zoro sat with Luffy and Marco. “And very much watching someone.”

 

 

Sanji felt in need of a distraction, so he got out his cigarettes and lit up. “You seem to be something of a people-watcher yourself.”

“True that.” Ace let out a slight laugh. “I like people. And I like watching them.”

“Must make life interesting.”

“I am _never_ bored.” Ace smiled. “Plus, I make a lot of new friends.”

 

 

Sanji could believe that. There was a sunny energy about the fire juggler which pulled you in... Similar to his younger brother, but with a more wistful quality to it. Not to mention, the brunette was definitely in the category of gorgeous.

_Did I just think that?_

Sanji drew on his cigarette to try to ground himself in the here and now. And tried to think of something ordinary to talk about. “Your brother seems pretty good at that, too.”

“Luffy? Yeah.” Ace chuckled. “Luffy is the Large Hadron Collider of friendships. Anyone who gets into his vicinity winds up being part of one big happy family, whether they want to be or not. And speaking as someone who comes from a small unhappy family, I think that’s a gift.”

 

 

Sanji was curious. “Usopp told me a little about you guys... Your grandfather brought you up, right?”

“If by ‘brought up’ you mean tried to drill us into becoming upstanding god-fearing model citizens, yep.” Ace took a swig of his beer. “Most kids who get sent off to military boarding school hate it. But I remember thinking, ‘Cool, at least I get away from the old bastard for a while.’ ”

“So you didn’t hate it?”

“Are you fucking kidding?” Ace rolled his eyes. “Military school sucks. And if you’re gay and at military school, hello to a new universe of special torture.”

“That bad?”

“You know what smurfing is?”

Sanji knew a couple of meanings. Neither of which made sense in this context. “Isn’t that some kind of internet hacking thing?”

“Yeah... But in military training parlance, something else.” Ace’s mouth twisted wryly. “We had to do this swim survival class at school. All part of the whole turning us into clean Marines, or somesuch.”

 

 

Sanji guessed this story was not going to be a good one. “Please tell me this didn’t involve some big ex-military swim coach and you alone together in a shower.”

“Oh, nothing that exciting.” Ace said this lightly. “No: when we did swim drill there was a game they liked to play with us. Called sharks and daisies.”

Even the name made Sanji feel uneasy. “I think I can guess who the daisies were.”

“We had to tread water, a circle of us in the pool facing inwards, holding our hands behind our backs.” Ace’s tone was still matter-of-fact. “Then the swim instructors would come up behind you and put you in a choke hold... Supposedly to simulate how a drowning person might grab hold of you in the water. You had to try and break the hold.”

“Fucking _hell_.” Sanji narrowed his eyes. “How old were you?”

“Fifteen.” Ace let out a long breath.

“Did anyone know this shit was going on?”

“No-one who cared. It was all part of the toughen-‘em-up bullshit regime.”

“So what happened?”

 

 

Ace gave a smile that really wasn’t a smile. “I decided I wasn’t gonna be one of their fucking daisies. So the second class we had, I refused to get into the pool.”

“And what did they do?”

“Threw me in. And one of the instructors held me under the surface till I started to black out.”

Sanji felt cold all over. “Jesus, Ace.”

“They weren’t actually intending to drown me. That _would’ve_ been kind of hard to cover up.” Ace looked sidelong at Sanji, that bitter smile still there. “Once I stopped struggling they pulled me out onto the pool side and I puked my guts up. Then they told me I had to get my ass back in the pool. So I did. Figured, better a daisy than a corpse.”

“Motherfuckers...”

“I swam over to where the rest of the kids were waiting in the circle, and started treading water with them. Hands behind my back. And this kid next to me just said out the corner of his mouth, ‘Dude, you were _totally_ blue.’ ” Ace gave Sanji a shrug. “Hence: smurfing.”

 

 

The chef literally didn’t know what to say. But needed to say something. “Christ on a raft. How long were you and Luffy stuck in that shithole?”

“Three years each.” Ace took a hit on his beer. “Seemed like longer.”

“I bet.” Sanji was seeing Ace in a whole new light. “Was it all as bad as that?”

“Not all of it, no.” Ace shook his head. “Believe it or not, I did actually get a few useful things from my time there. They had kick-ass sports facilities... So I just tried out for the school gymnastics team, and spent every hour I could working on that. It got me out of swim class, so double win. But mostly? It was boring, and miserable, and a total head fuck. And believe me when I say, the military mind knows how to fuck with your head in ways that civilised people would find hard to comprehend.”

“Were you out, at school?”

“Yeah. Which I decided was gonna be part of my general fuck-you to the establishment there.” Ace grimaced slightly. “I really didn’t think that one through as much as I should have.”

 

 

Sanji let out a breath. “Shit. I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”

Ace regarded him with a half smile. A real one, this time. “Yeah... You are, aren’t you?” He propped his folded arms on his knees. “I notice that about you. You’re a people person, too.”

The chef didn’t quite know how to take this. “Well... Work like mine, you have to be.”

Ace shook his head slightly. “So how do you explain the staggeringly high proportion of people working in the bar and catering industry who seem to take customer hating to new levels?”

“They’re assholes?” suggested Sanji.

“Well yeah, that’s a given.” Ace smiled again. “But what I mean is, you’re a nice guy. You seem to care about people.”

 

 

Sanji found getting this compliment from the dark-haired man actually embarrassed him a little. “I care about my friends.”

“Uh huh. I get that. And Nami’s a sweetheart.” Ace wasn’t letting him off that easy. “But you care about people, period. I heard about you asking Luffy if you could invite Chopper to the party. And Usopp was telling me about hanging with you, a while back.” The fire juggler watched him. “That’s what I mean. You’re someone who goes out of his way to do nice stuff for people. Listening to me ramble on about this nasty shit from my past. Being sympathetic. Even bringing and cooking all that food for us, tonight.”

“I’m a chef. That’s basically my job description.”

Ace laughed. “And you have trouble accepting anything back from people in return. Like compliments.”

Sanji was starting to feel uncomfortable now. Which probably meant Ace had a point. “I just like seeing other people happy. It’s purely from self-interested motives.”

 

 

“Okay, I get the message.” Ace chuckled. “I’ll quit being gushy.”

“That’s okay.” Sanji felt slight relief that the fire juggler was backing off.

“Although, before we totally abandon this topic... I’m gonna mention that one of the people you’re making happy right now is a good friend of mine, so on that score I want to say: keep up the good work.”

Sanji knew who he was talking about. Without meaning to, his gaze switched across the rooftop. To where Zoro was sitting: now with Luffy’s arm draped over his shoulders, the younger man still in full flow narrating some implausible tale.

Ace followed his gaze. “It’s good to see him like this. It didn’t used to happen much.”

 

 

Sanji didn’t doubt this. And wondered how ethical it was for him to want to know more about that. “You guys have been friends a while, right?”

“Couple of years.” Ace nodded.

Which meant that presumably, Ace had known Zoro in the aftermath of the swordsman losing Kuina: the period Zoro had referred to last night, when they’d been talking.

_\- My life went to shit again, when Kuina died. And then I picked right back up where I left off. Because when you’re an addict, that’s always an option. When the shit goes down, old bad habits come knocking._

 

 

Sanji hesitated... Then decided he really wanted to know. However unfair it was to Zoro, to ask one of his friends about him. Because after last night’s revelations, the chef was still feeling somewhat blindsided: and part of him felt that the more information he had, the better.

He tried to be careful about the way he approached it. “You must have met him when he was at a pretty low point.”

Ace let out a wry breath. “Understatement.”

“I know losing his friend must have hit him really hard.”

“I think it kind of broke him.” Ace shook his head. “You know, if you’ve ever met someone that’s had something happen to them that takes the centre out of their universe... Like, whatever their fixed point was, that kept them on track?”

Sanji knew this, but not because it had happened to someone else. “Yeah.”

“I think Kuina was that. For Zoro.” Ace looked across at the swordsman. “When I first met him, he was pretty much cut loose from everything. Like nothing really held him here any more.”

 

 

What Ace was talking about sounded too much like someone approaching a very dark place, for Sanji to hear this with anything less than disquiet. “I knew it was bad. I wasn’t sure how bad.”

Ace gestured across the rooftop with his bottle. “If you’ve picked up anything about Zoro, you must have picked up that he is one determined stubborn-ass fucker. Like, once he sets his mind on a goal, he won’t stop till he’s reached it.”

“Yeah, I had kinda noticed that.” It was Sanji’s turn to smile wryly.

“So for a while, back in the day: it pretty much looked like the goal he’d set himself was to self destruct.” Ace sighed. “As in, do everything that was available until he was tanked... Then do it again, the following weekend.”

 

 

Sanji didn’t make an immediate reply to this. And the other man shot him a suddenly conscious look. “Fuck. Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this stuff. You want to get into this, you really ought to be asking him, not me.”

“We have talked about it.” Sanji knew Ace was right, though. “Some. He... told me about Kuina, when we first met. And this other stuff... That he took drugs, and the shit he had to go through when he was younger - ” Sanji managed to catch himself in time. Remembering suddenly what Zoro had said to him last night, about Ace and Luffy.

_\- They don’t know about all this._

 

 

Ace was watching him. Waiting. So Sanji tried to finish what he’d been saying, without giving Zoro’s confidence away. “So, well, yeah. He told me a whole lot of things. So I get that things have been bad for him, in the past.”

“Bad. Yeah.” Ace seemed to be thinking this over. Then he spoke again. “Anyway... What happened was my kid bro met Zoro, at a party: and decided Zoro was gonna be his new best friend. Whether Zoro wanted that or not. So it was pretty much a done deal, because when Luffy decides something it’s like: hello, universe, get in line. Which was a result for Zoro. Because I think if that hadn’t happened about then, he’d probably have achieved what he was aiming for... By means of drugs, or drinking, or screwing around. Or probably all three.”

 

 

That was such an unthinkable prospect, that Sanji said what he felt. “Then I’m fucking glad that Zoro met your brother.”

Ace smiled. “Yeah, that’s my kid brother. Hurtling round this wacky planet saving people and pulling them into his orbit. In between partying and driving us all totally insane.”

They both took a moment to look at Luffy and Zoro again. The younger man was now apparently trying to arm wrestle with the swordsman, which looked like it would wind up being a lengthy contest.

 

 

Ace smiled at his brother’s antics. Took another mouthful of beer, then sighed. “So, yeah... Zoro became Luffy’s friend, like he had any choice in the matter. Which meant he became my friend too. Which was, heh... a little complicated at first.”

“Complicated?”

Ace gave him a sidelong look. “On account of me taking one look at Zoro and wanting to fuck his brains out.”

Sanji froze with his cigarette halfway up to his mouth.

Beside him, Ace smiled again. “Breathe, guy. Nothing ever happened.”

Sanji wasn’t sure what he felt. “Because of... Marco?”

“This was way before Marco.” Ace gave a half shake of his head. “No... I didn’t fuck Zoro because it would have been a really bad idea. He was my friend, and right about then Zoro needed friends a lot more than he needed another fuck buddy. However much I would’ve rocked his world with that particular experience.” He sighed. “Sometimes ethics are a real drawback.”

 

 

Sanji looked at him. “But you wanted to?”

“Of course I wanted to. Shit, who wouldn’t?” Ace raised an eyebrow. “Zoro’s a babe. Even when he was banging all that shit into himself, he was still hella sexy. In a rumpled, fucked-up kind of way. But it would’ve been a train wreck, for both of us. So we stayed friends. The kind without any benefits.”

Sanji felt the tension that had sprung into his stomach settle somewhat. “Right.”

Ace tipped his head a little on one side, eyeing him. “Hey. Don’t weird out over this. It’s a non-issue: I met Marco and it was game over, the two of us are so well-matched it’s unreal. He’s as tweaked as I am, it’s a match made in kink heaven. And you and Zoro...” He gestured at the chef. “You two seem good together, too.”

 

 

Sanji remembered Zoro’s question, from the night before. The way the swordsman had looked at him when he’d asked it: his gaze steady. Wanting to know how those revelations had changed things between them. What Sanji truly felt.

_\- Are we good?_

 

 

Sanji hadn’t answered in words, and he still didn’t know why. Maybe because it had felt easier to show the swordsman what he felt, than find the right thing to say. Maybe because if he’d had to say it in words, it would have come across as glib. _Yeah: we’re good._ Saying not enough, or too much.

 

 

Ace was watching him. “Actually, you guys seem more than good.” A small smile curved up the corners of his mouth. “He’s totally into you.”

Sanji inevitably felt his face heat up. Took a hit on his cigarette: slowly released the smoke. “...Yeah. It’s going great. Even though we’ve only been together a few months... Feels like we’ve really connected.”

“Mhmm, I bet.” Ace let out a low dirty chuckle. “Feel free to share details.” He rocked slightly sideways, nudging his shoulder against the chef’s. “Or more photos.”

“You always been this shameless?”

“Yep.” Ace took a gulp of beer, before letting the bottle pop back out of his mouth suggestively. “What I said, though, Sanji... For real. You guys look like you fit each other. You said Zoro told you about some of the gnarly stuff from his past... He told me and Luffy a few things too – like what happened with Kuina - but mostly he was stoned or drunk when he did that. I know he carries a shitload in his head from way back. If he talked with you about it, he must trust you.”

Sanji wasn’t exactly sure how to take this. “He wanted to be straight with me.”

“Mm hm.” Ace gazed at him. “He wants to let you in.”

The chef said nothing. But he knew that what the other man had said was true.

“And just in case you hadn’t already figured this out...” Ace’s eyes held his. “With Zoro, that’s a big fucking deal.”

Sanji let out a breath. “Way ahead of you.”

Ace said nothing more: but after a moment, just gave a single nod.

 

 

 

 

It was getting on for two a.m. before the party showed any signs of winding down. A few of the candle lanterns had burned out; Usopp’s playlist had reached a mellow phase; and everyone had more or less reached the lying prone on cushions stage.

Nami let out an elegant yawn, covering her mouth with one hand. “Eh, I’m gonna have to call a cab soon, or I’m going to wind up sleeping here.”

“We could stay up till dawn,” proposed Luffy. “Watch the sunrise.”

“Ugh, no thanks.” Nami yawned again. “When I do that I feel like I’m seeing it from the wrong direction.”

“I should go too.” This was Chopper, also sounding sleepy. “I have patients booked in for tomorrow. I mean, today.”

“You have to work on a Saturday?” Usopp spoke in horrified tones.

“Not have to, no.” Chopper didn’t sound bothered. “But I don’t mind seeing a few people for treatments on Saturdays, if it’s hard for them to fit it in around other commitments.”

 

 

“Anyone want to share a cab, then?” Nami inquired.

“Please,” responded Chopper.

“If we can gatecrash your chariot, that would be handy.” Ace spoke up too. “I am way too tired to walk back to my place.”

“Fine. I’ll order one.” Nami sat up and dug out her phone.

 

 

“Aww, you guys can’t leave.” Luffy pouted. “Stay for a bit longer.”

Ace also sat up. He exchanged a conspiratorial look with Marco: both fire jugglers smiled. “Think now’s a good time to get Luffy’s birthday treat out?”

“Sure.” Marco got up and walked over to where he and Ace had piled their bags of fireshow kit, before crouching down and beginning to rummage in a backpack.

“Birthday treat?” Luffy immediately perked up. “You guys got me a present? Awesome! Whoa, is it a meerkat?”

 

 

Ace gave his younger brother a look. “Yeah, it’s a meerkat. A meerkat that we’ve left stashed in Marco’s backpack for seven hours.”

“Way cool! I’m gonna call it Timon.” Luffy beamed, before launching into song. “ _It’s our trouble-free philosophy...Hakuna matata_... ”

The fire juggler swatted him across the top of the head. “Stop with the Disney fanboy horror. There is no fucking meerkat, you imbecile.”

Luffy’s face fell. “Aoww...”

Ace looked at Zoro. “I pity you, if you have to put up with this kind of shit every day.”

 

 

The swordsman made a _Shit happens_ gesture. “Who says I put up with it? I have a room with a lockable door.”

 

 

Marco stood up and returned to the group, holding a couple of long thin packets. “Here: got ‘em.”

Luffy quickly lost his woebegone expression. “What are they?”

Ace took one of the packets from his boyfriend and displayed it. “Mega size sparklers.”

“Yessss!” Luffy made a grab for the packet, but Ace forestalled him, holding it out of reach.

“First: some ground rules. Number one, these are for everyone to share. We brought two packs of twenty, so that’s five each.”

“Uh huh. Gimme.” Luffy’s eyes remained glued on the sparklers.

“Number two: sparklers get fucking toasty hot, so do not try to do anything dumb with them. Like poking me or anyone else. Or I will get extremely testy with you.”

“Okay, okay.” His younger brother nodded.

“Number three: once they’ve gone out, sparklers are to be dropped in that bucket of water over there. Not randomly scattered on the rooftop where one of us might tread on them. _Capiche_ , brat?”

Nodding repeatedly, Luffy made grasping motions with both hands. “Hand the fucking things over!”

 

 

Ace smirked, before passing the packet back to Marco. “Marco gets to be sparkler monitor.”

“Gee, thanks.” The tall fire juggler gave his boyfriend a cool look, at the revelation that he was on crowd control.

“You have my absolute permission to withhold sparkler privileges from anyone not behaving themselves.” Ace gave him an enchanting smile. “Because I know you have absolutely _no problem_ with disciplining people.” And he sealed this by treating Marco to a prolonged and definitely Instagram-worthy kiss.

When they separated, Marco gave his lover a dangerous smile. “You’re certainly going to be paying for this, over the next couple of days.”

“Ah, the gift that just keeps on giving.” Ace held out a hand. “Sparkler me.”

 

 

 As everyone took their turn at getting their sparklers from Marco, Sanji couldn’t help saying to Ace, “So Luffy gets to play with fire after all.”

“Well, I’m not a total sad-sack.” Ace waved his unlit sparkler like a magic wand. “I mean, my brother and flaming kerosene-doused torches: uh-uh, no _way_. But I figured even Luffy can’t do anything too apocalyptic with these.”

“Sure about that?”

“There’s a doctor present. And presumably this building is insured.” Ace struck a vamp-like pose, holding his sparkler between two fingers as if it was a cigarette in a holder. “Hey: light me, big boy.”

Sanji got out his lighter, and did as requested. As the sparkler glittered alight, Ace waved like a magic wand again. “ _Schwing!_ Life always goes better with a little sparkle.”

 

 

For their first couple of goes, most of them just reverted to being kids: twirling their sparklers round and round, making the kind of _Oooh_ and _Aaaah_ sounds that fireworks of any sort usually spontaneously produce.

As proceedings continued, Nami took out her phone. “Wait, you guys! Let’s do some sparkler art.”

“Awesome suggestion!” Usopp fist-punched the air.

“How the hell does that work?” Zoro regarded his own sparkler with suspicion, as though he was going to be asked to do something embarrassing.

“You use your sparkler like a paintbrush, as if you’re drawing a picture in the air.” Nami demonstrated. “And one of us takes a picture on our phone while you’re doing it. You only get to see the finished picture once you look at the photo.” She handed her phone to Usopp. “I’ll show you.” And standing in front of the artist, she nodded at him: before swirling her sparkler along and around a few times.

“Got it.” Usopp touched the phone, then flipped it round to show everyone. The photo showed Nami, her face lit by the sparkler’s glow... And a glittering light trail that formed a picture of a butterfly.

 

 

“Whoa, that’s so cool!” Luffy grabbed the phone. “How did you do that?”

“Like I said: you pick a shape to draw – or a word to write – then you light up a sparkler and use it as if it was a paintbrush, on an invisible canvas.” Nami took her phone back. “Who’s up next?”

“Me!” Luffy grabbed a sparkler, and held it to one of the surviving candles to get it lit. “Okay, watch!” Nami trained the phone on him, while Luffy scribbled energetically in the air with his sparkler for what seemed like an entire minute. “Guess what I did!”

“Was it _Washington Crossing The Delaware_?” Ace raised an eyebrow.

“I was going to go with Jackson Pollock,” Marco mused.

“Show them, Nami.” Luffy crossed his arms, somewhat heedless of the fact that he was still holding a burning sparkler.

“Yeah, about that...” Nami turned her phone one way then the other, frowning at the screen. “I have literally no idea what I’m looking at.”

Luffy rolled his eyes. “It’s Sonic!” He prised the phone away from her, and displayed it to everyone else. “Look.”

After a brief amount of staring, Ace commented to Marco, “Yeah, you were right.”

“It’s totally Sonic, asshole!” Luffy’s finger stabbed at the screen. “Look, here’s his eyes, here’s his spikes, here’s his hands...”

“Moving right along: okay, Usopp.” Nami retrieved her phone. “You’re up.”

 

 

The artist took a sparkler but paused for a moment: placing an enigmatic finger on his lips. “Hmmm... Maybe I should go for Chun Li.”

“Ah, _Street Fighter 2_ sucks.” Luffy blew a raspberry.

“You two gaming nerds are lowering the cool of this entire neighbourhood,” Ace groaned. “Usopp: get on with it already.”

“Right.” Usopp grinned, before lighting his sparkler. Once it was lit, he positioned himself in front of Nami’s phone. “Okay: lights, camera, _action_.” His hand moved rapidly, painting the air with light. “And stop.”

 

 

Nami looked at the phone, and crowed. “Beauty.” She held it up, so they could all see: a masted galleon, with billowing sails.

“It even has a _flag_. That’s gonna make the rest of us look like total losers.” Ace blew out. “No fair.”

“Chopper: you have a go.” Nami turned the phone on the young doctor.

“Me? I don’t know what to do!” Chopper looked panicked.

“Whatever you like.” Nami’s voice was gently encouraging. “C’mon. Just have some fun.”

“Well... Okay.” Chopper obediently lit up, then waved his sparkler about in front of her.

“Aw, sweet.” Nami smilingly held the resulting photo up: Chopper in the midst of a patchwork of sparkling stars and flowers.

 

 

Ace looked at Marco. “I’ve got an idea. Want to team up?”

The pair got their sparklers lit, then stepped back a little... Before recreating an excerpt from their fire staff routine, only using the sparklers instead. By the time Nami had captured the photo, the two fire jugglers had created an image where they’d become blurry fire sprites, surrounded by a kaleidoscopic galaxy of light.

“Okay. Follow _that_.” Ace stuck out his tongue.

 

 

Sanji exchanged a look with Zoro. “You want to go next?”

“After you, shit cook.”

“Fine.” Sanji had had enough time to think up something to do. He turned to Nami. “Ready, my sweet?”

“Take it away.” She held her thumb against her phone.

Sanji used his lighter to get his sparkler going. “Okay. Starting... now.” He swept his hand in a series of arcs and curves, visualising what he’d decided to draw. “And... that’s it.”

Nami lowered her phone, and looked at it. “Wow.” She gave him a smile. “Not half bad.” Turning the phone round, she displayed Sanji’s sparkler art to everyone: a dolphin, leaping above a series of ocean waves.

“Masterful,” Usopp approved. “You sir, are an artist.”

 

 

Sanji turned to Zoro, and gave him a smug smile. “No pressure.”

Zoro let out a grunt. “Gimme a light.”

The chef triggered the flame, and the swordsman held the tip of his sparkler in it until it ignited. He turned and faced Nami, before holding his still-burning sparkler above his head. “Okay, go.” Sweeping it across, diagonally down, then across again, the swordsman repeated the same path several times: using the sparkler’s light trail to create a tall zigzag. “That’s it.”

Nami said in a strange voice, “Uh, right...”

Ace let out a cackle. “I get it! ‘ _Zorro_...’ ”

Marco chimed in with him, the two fire jugglers declaiming it together. “ ‘... _The Gay Blade_.’ ” Before virtually rolling around on the rooftop with laughter.

Zoro turned on them. “I’m gonna throw you two off this roof.”

Ace faced Marco, dropping into a pseudo-Spanish accent and striking a dramatic pose. “ _‘You recognise that famous sign, eh?’_  ”

Marco followed suit. “ _‘Oh yes, señor. It is a number two.’ ”_ They both fell apart into hysterical laughter again.

 

 

Zoro turned back to face the rest of the group. Who were all similarly incapacitated. “All I did was draw a fucking Z.”

Choking on laughter, Sanji shook his head. “No you didn’t, you shitty moss brained idiot.”

“Yeah I did! Like this.” Zoro repeated his gesture, with the sputtering remains of his sparkler.

Holding up her phone to show him the photo she’d taken, Nami giggled. “Nuh-uh.”

“You did it the _wrong way round_.” Sanji gestured with his cigarette, to demonstrate. “Holy crap, moss-head. You even lose your direction when you’re writing the alphabet.”

“The fuck...” Zoro scowled at picture on Nami’s phone. “Okay, give me another one of these things. I’m gonna do another.”

“Oh god, please do,” implored Ace, wiping his eyes. “This comedy improv is better than our fireshow.”

 

 

Taking a few seconds to get his sparkler lit, Zoro positioned himself in front of Nami again. “Ready?”

“Whenever you are, Don Diego,” she returned with a wicked grin, holding up her phone again.

His mouth setting into a determined line, Zoro held still for a moment. His gaze switched across to Sanji... Then a dangerous smile came onto his face. “Okay, smartasses.”

The swordsman moved his arm, swirling the hand that was holding the sparkler in what looked like a round shape; then adding some kind of detail. It took a few seconds: when he was done, he stilled his arm. “Done.”

Nami brought her phone to her face and inspected it. Before letting out a laugh. “Oho... You sneaky bastard.”

 

 

“What did he draw? Lemme see!” Luffy stuck his head next to hers, grabbing at the phone. When Nami tilted it so he could see the screen, Luffy too began to laugh. “No way!”

“C’mon, share the masterpiece,” Ace instructed. Nami handed him the phone so he and Marco could get a look; then it was passed round the entire group. Sanji was the last to get it handed to him, by Usopp: the artist gave him an apologetic grin as he did so. “Sorry, man. But that’s _uncanny_.”

Sanji lifted up the phone so he could see the screen. Nami’s photo of Zoro showed the swordsman with that dangerous smile, his hand blurred with movement as it created the light trail with the flaring sparkler... Which had created a picture which was unmistakeably a face. With two curling spirals over the eyes.

 

 

The chef lifted his gaze from the phone and found Zoro grinning at him. “Think I’m getting the hang of this art shit.”

“Very funny, asshole.” Sanji took a step into the swordsman’s space. “I hear that the value of artworks goes up dramatically after the artist who made them dies. So kicking you into orbit works for me on several levels.”

“Simmer down, boys.” Nami said this sweetly, but with enough steel in it to rein Sanji in. “Don’t harsh everyone’s buzz.”

Sanji took a breath; then gave her a nod. “Apologies, my sweet.” Then shot Zoro a level look. “You know what dish is best served cold: right, craphead?”

Zoro’s grin widened a notch. “Sure, shit cook.”

 

 

After that it became a free-for-all. Ace showed Nami how to do one of his and Marco’s fire routine moves, so she was able to produce trails like a spinning windmill, her face illuminated in laughing enjoyment. Luffy and Usopp staged a light sabre duel, then Zoro was persuaded to show everyone how it should be done, running through some kendo moves. Marco, Sanji  and Chopper collaborated to write HAPPY BIRTHDAY LUFFY, to the accompaniment of cheering regardless of the fact that it was now closer to three a.m.

At last the last sparkler fizzled and spat sparks, before fading to a red glow, and then out to black. Marco dropped it into the bucket of water: it gave a brief hiss and was gone, light and heat vanquished.

“And that’s about how I feel.” Ace let out a lengthy yawn. “Wuhhhh... Had we better call that cab?”

“Already done.” Nami held up her phone, curled up on a cushion with Chopper.

“Fabulous.” Ace slung one arm over Marco. “I’m dead on my feet. Carry me up the stairs when we get to my place?”

“Not happening,” Marco responded.

“Monster.” Ace propped his head on the other man’s shoulder, and shut his eyes. “Then at least let me sleepwalk.”

 

 

“You crashing on our couch, Usopp?” Zoro asked.

“Absolutely.” Usopp was flat on his back on a nest of cushions, and sounded like he was already half-comatose.

Sanji felt the swordsman’s hand ruffle his hair: the two of them were also prone on some cushions. “You still awake, cook?”

“Only just.” Pleasantly drowsy, Sanji felt disinclined to move.

Zoro’s hand lightly pressed against his head, pulling them closer together: a moment later, the swordsman’s lips found his. “Don’t go to sleep here. I’m not gonna carry you to bed.”

The kiss tasted faintly of alcohol. Zoro’s mouth was a point of warmth in the early morning chill. “Zero good boyfriend points for you, then.”

“Uh huh.” The swordsman gave a low laugh.

 

 

“Mhmm... We should probably start wending our way down to the street.” Nami sat up. “Cab’s going to be here in five, and I don’t want to have it take off because they think we’re not ready.”

“Good point.” Ace said this still with his eyes closed. “Lead on, seeing-eye dog.”

Marco pinched his cheek. “Rise and shine, my little pillow princess. Or I’m leaving your skinny ass right here. No way am I toting all this fireshow shit home without your help.”

“Work, work, work.” Ace grumbled this, sliding his arm free and grudgingly doing as he was told.

 

 

Sanji and Zoro sat up. “Night, you guys.”

“Morning would be more accurate.” Nami bent down and kissed Sanji on the cheek, then gave Zoro a grin. “Whupped your ass.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The swordsman smiled wryly back. “We’ll see who’s laughing, next time.”

They all got to their feet, except Usopp who remained lying on his back, humming quietly as he looked up at the night sky: and Luffy, who was spread-eagled on his back on an adjoining cushion, snoring loudly.

“He looks so cute when he’s unconscious,” remarked Ace. “You need any help getting his ass to bed?”

“We’re just gonna leave him up here,” answered Zoro, poker-faced.

“We’ll handle it,” Sanji assured the fire juggler.

 

 

Chopper hugged himself, looking like he had never been acquainted with three a.m. before. Although being a doctor, this seemed unlikely. “Wow... It’s kind of chilly, now.”

“Let’s make a move.” Ace nodded at Marco, and they both moved to get their stuff. Everyone exchanged hugs, except the still-sleeping Luffy; and Usopp, who merely lifted a hand in salute.

Nami checked her phone. “Uh oh: cab’s here, guys. Let’s motor.” She turned back to Sanji and gave him a last parting smile. “Check your WhatsApp.”

“Huh?” The chef was starting to space out somewhat.

“ ‘Bye, guys.” Ace and Marco both lifted a hand in farewell, before following Nami towards the access door.

Chopper gave Sanji and Zoro a quick but genuine smile. “Thanks... It was a great party.” Then he too turned and hurried after the others.

 

 

Sanji let out a jaw-creaking yawn, then turned back to view the party debris. “Ughh... Do we have to clear this mess up now, or can we leave it till sometime considerably later in the daytime?”

“Long as Usopp gets his music tech shit taken down, the rest of it can wait.” Zoro shrugged.

“Then let’s go to bed.”

“We need to reanimate these two zombies first.”

“Usopp!” Sanji raised his voice.

“Yo.” A sleepy response.

“You’re in charge of getting your shit together and bringing Luffy downstairs.”

“Yo.”

 

 

Sanji gave Zoro a smug look. “Delegation is the key to a successful life.”

“Those two are both just gonna end up sleeping here.”

“No they’re not. Usopp’s in charge.”

“Leave it to me.” Usopp’s drowsy tones reached them. “Totally got this covered. No pr’blem.”

“See?” Sanji nodded towards the access door. “Bed.”

Zoro gave a slow smile. “Uh huh. It’s later.”

“Yeah, it’s late,” Sanji agreed.

“No, shit cook. _Later_.” Zoro’s smile took on a purposeful look. “Remember?”

 

 

Sanji was sleepy, so it took him a moment to get it. “Oh. Yeah.”

The swordsman nodded. “C’mon.”

Sanji decided to yield to the inevitable. Which now he was thinking about what _Later_ involved, had the effect of making him less sleepy than he’d previously thought. “Okay.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, starting to walk towards the access door.

His hand touched his phone. He suddenly remembered Nami’s instruction.

_\- Check your WhatsApp._

Bringing his phone out, Sanji opened up the app and checked his messages. There was a whole thread from Nami: all the photos she’d taken that evening, of them creating their sparkler art.

The last one, Nami had written a single comment next to:

_‘Behind you..!’_

 

 

The photo showed Sanji and Zoro sharing Sanji’s cigarette lighter flame, obviously trying to ignite their respective sparklers. The light from the flame illuminated their faces with a gold glow. Zoro’s hand was over Sanji’s, as if he was steadying the flame.

And in the background was a grinning Ace, who had obviously used his own already lit sparkler to sketch something that fitted into the darkness above Zoro and Sanji’s heads.

A heart, outlined in golden fire.

 

 

“What’s that?” Zoro

Sanji simply held the phone out. The swordsman looked: and let out a _huff_ of laughter.

“Fucking Ace...”

Sanji stuck his phone back in pocket. “C’mon, moss-head. Before later becomes tomorrow.”

 

 

They walked through the door, down the stairs.

...And were still awake, when the sun finally came up.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it finally is: the concluding chapter. Hope it was worth the wait... I tried to make it as shiny as possible.
> 
> (Ace and Marco! Hot kissing! Half-naked fire juggling!! Drinking contest!! Fun with sparklers!!!)
> 
> If you want some music/visuals to help you with Ace and Marco's fireshow, check out the following:  
> (i.e. listen to the music track while watching the YouTube fire juggling clip)  
> Marco's contact fire staff routine:- 'Touched' by VAST with https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TRnxCb01gmg  
> Ace & Marco's fire staff juggling routine:- 'Firestarter' by Prodigy, with https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sigvX1zaRIc  
> Ace and Marco's poi routine:- 'Out Of Control' by Chemical Brothers, with https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXzLDgZ7shA ...and/or with https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YTGg2dp3Io0
> 
> And remember, folks: fire juggling should indeed be left to those trained to handle it. If you wanna have a go, mosey along to your nearest circus skills workshop and talk nicely to the people running it.
> 
>  
> 
> Some chapter notes, just in case anyone's interested:
> 
> \- Horribly, the 'sharks and daisies' training activity and the 'smurfing' that Ace talks about are both real things, and were used by the US military on recruits. In March 1988 a bunch of Navy Rescue trainees were being subjected to it in a pool by their instructors: 19 year-old Lee Mirecki tried to quit and was forced back into the water. His fellow trainees were told to get out and stand with their backs to the pool, singing the national anthem to drown out the sounds of Mirecki's struggles as the instructors dragged him in. He died under their hazing: official cause of death was listed as "heart failure". Only one of the seven officers later court-martialed for Mirecki's death was ever convicted, for "negligent homicide". He served just 75 days in jail.
> 
> \- Lao theuan is about as lethal as my description of it here suggests. Be careful with the moonshine, kiddies: I once tried a friend's 100% alcohol that he'd swiped from the lab where he worked, which we mixed into cocktails with orange juice... I had a fun night, but I woke up the next morning with a weird one-sided headache and a distinct memory gap.
> 
> \- 'Zorro: the Gay Blade' is an actual movie. Watching it is an experience.
> 
>  
> 
> It has actually been a lot of fun writing this. Thanks to all you lovely readers who've come along for the ride, through the darker angsty backstory, and this concluding bit of feelgood.
> 
> I plan to continue A Wild Combination with the next story arc in the run up to/over Christmas, all being well... Probably gonna take part in NaNoWriMo in November, so I want to spend a bit of time on 'serious' writing. I have one or two shorter one-shot ZoSan fics I've almost finished, will post those soon as they're readable.
> 
> As backstory and angst seemed to go down pretty well in this fic, I plan to do more. So the next arc will be called 'Things Fall Apart', and will feature some of Sanji's backstory. Because there really hasn't been enough angsty backstory about Sanji in One Piece lately. ;-)


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